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SADDLE 

AND 
SONG 


JOHNA.SEAVERNS 


TUFTS   UNIVERSITY   LIBRARIES 


9090  014  556  126 


Webster  Family  Library  of  Veterinary  Medicine 

Cummings  School  of  Veterinary  Medkane  at 

Tufts  University 

200  Westboro  Road 

North  Grafton,  MA  01536 


SADDLE   AND  SONG 


SADDLE  AND  SONG 


A  COLLECTION  OF  VERSES 
MADE  AT  WARRENTON,  VA., 
DURING    THE   WINTER    OF 

i9°4 — I9°5 


Quadrupedante  putrem  sonitu  quatit  ungula  campum 

Vergil,  jQLneid,  viii.  596 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 

J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

1905 


Copyright,  1905 
By  J.  B.  Lifpincott  Company 


Published  September,  1905 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  A. 


PREFACE 

©ANY  people  owe  a  larger  share  of  the  pleasures 
which  life  has  afforded  to  the  good  horses  that 
have  carried  them  either  on  the  road  or  over  the  country. 
Others  who  have  had  sterner  conditions  to  confront  often 
would  have  failed  in  important  accomplishments  but  for 
the  generous  aid  of  some  stout-hearted  horse.  All  of  these 
might  pass  a  pleasant  moment  or  two  and  recall  some 
stirring  scenes  in  the  occasional  perusal  of  well-told 
stories  of  good  gallops.  Even  the  less  fortunate,  who 
have  never  felt  beneath  them  the  power  and  rhythm  of 
a  horse's  stride,  will  not  deny  that  the  horse  has  well 
earned  the  place  he  holds  in  song  and  story.  Thus  it  is 
believed  there  will  be  many  to  welcome  such  a  collection 
of  verses  as  has  been  attempted  in  these  pages.  No  claim 
is  made  to  have  exhausted  the  literature  of  the  English 
language  on  this  subject,  but  it  is  hoped  that  sufficient 
variety,  in  respect  to  the  types  of  horses  and  the  tasks 
accomplished  by  them,  has  been  offered  to  enable  those 
who  may  read,  each  to  find  some  horse  to  his  liking  or 
the  story  of  a  gallant  effort  that  must  command  his 
admiration. 

In  making  a  general  acknowledgment  of  the  courtesy 
of  authors  and  owners  of  copyrights  in  permitting  the 
publication  of  poems  written  or  controlled  by  them,  re- 
gret must  be  expressed  that  it  has  not  been  possible  to 
include  in  the  collection  any  satisfactory  pieces  de- 
scribing the  prowess  of  the  "  cow  pony"  of  the  western 

5 


PREFACE 

plains.  Very  little  good  material  could  be  found,  and, 
unfortunately,  the  few  poems  selected  were  eventually 
rendered  unavailable  by  copyright  difficulties. 

The  authors  and  owners  of  copyrights  to  whom  ac- 
knowledgments are  due  for  their  courtesy  in  permitting 
re-publications  are  as  follows: 

Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling,  for  his  "  Ballad  of  East  and 
West;"  General  Sir  Ian  Hamilton,  for  "  Hadji  and  the 
Boar;"  Mr.  W.  Phillpotts  Williams,  for  two  poems, 
"  There's  Life  in  the  Old  Horse  Yet"  and  "  The  Race 
of  the  Tear;"  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  the  au- 
thorized publishers  of  Bret  Harte's  works,  for  "  Chi- 
quita;"  The  Whitaker  &  Ray  Co.  for  two  poems  from 
the  complete  poetical  works  of  Joaquin  Miller,  "  Va- 
quero ' '  and  ' '  Kit  Carson 's  Ride ; ' '  and  Doubleday,  Page 
&  Co.  for  "  The  Groom's  Story"  from  A.  Conan 
Doyle's  "  Songs  of  Action;"  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co. 
for  Browning's  "  Muleykeh"  and  "  How  They  Brought 
the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix;"  Messrs.  Macmil- 
lan  &  Co.  for  Charles  Kingsley's  "  Lorraine,  Lorraine, 
Lorree. ' ' 


CONTENTS 

"HAST  THOU  GIVEN  THE  HORSE  STRENGTH?" 

PAGE 

Alexander  Taming  Bucephalus    .  Park  Benjamin 15 

"  '  Bring  forth  the  steed  !'     It  was  a  level  plain" 

"LOOK   WHEN   A   PAINTER  WOULD   SURPASS 
THE   LIFE" 

The  Blood  Horse Barry  Cornwall 21 

"Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed" 

Muleykeh Robert  Browning     ....    23 

"  If  a  stranger  passed  the  tent  of  Hoseyn" 

Bavieca John  Gibson  Lockhart  .    .     31 

"  The  King  looked  on  him  kindly" 

Mazeppa Lord  Byron 33 

"  'Twas  after  dread  Pultowa's  day" 

Chiquita Bret  Harte 46 

"  Beautiful !    Sir,  you  may  say  so" 

"FOUR  THINGS  GREATER  THAN  ALL  THINGS 
ARE" 

El-Azrek Bayard  Taylor     ......    51 

"  My  only  sequin  served  to  bribe" 

Lochinvar Walter  Scott 55 

"  0,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west" 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride  .  .    .  Caroline  Norton 58 

"  Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king" 

Kit  Carson's  Ride Joaquin  Miller 60 

"Run?    Run?    See  this  flank,  sir" 

The  Romance  of  Britomarte  .    .    .  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  .    .    64 
"I'll  tell  you  a  story  :  hut  pass  the  'jack'  " 

7 


CONTENTS 

"A  HOUSE  I     A  HOESE  !    MY  KINGDOM  FOE  A 
HOESE" 

PAGE 

The  Ballad  of  East  and  West  .    .  Rudyard  Kipling    ....    77 

"  Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West" 

The  Leap  of  Eoushan  Beg    ....  Henry  W.  Longfellow    .    .    84 
"  Mounted  on  K j  nit  strong  and  fleet" 

Paul  Eevere's  Eide Henry  W.  Longfellow    .    .    88 

'  Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear" 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 

from  Ghent  to  Aix Robert  Browning 93 

"  I  sprang  to  the  Btirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he" 

From  the  Wreck Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  .    .    96 

"  *  Turn  out,  boys' — 'What's  up  with  our  super  to-night?'  " 

Conrot's  Gap A.  B.  Paterson 102 

"  This  was  the  way  of  it,  don't  you  know" 

The  Smuggler's  Leap Thomas  Ingoldsby   ....  108 

"The  fire-flash  shines  from  Keculver  Cliff" 

The  Groom's  Story A.  Conan  Doyle 118 

"  Ten  miles  in  twenty  minutes.     'E  done  it,  sir.     That's  true" 


"THE  BELL  HAS  RUNG.      WITH  THEIR  EIDEES 
UP" 

The  Eace  of  the  Year W.  Phillpotts  Williams.  .127 

"Come  down  to  the  Derby,  come  down  to  the  race" 

How  We  Beat  the  Favourite.  .    .  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  .    .  129 
"  '  Aye,  Squire,'  said  SteTens,  they  back  him  at  evens'  " 

Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorree  .    .    .  Charles  Kingsley    ....  134 

"  'Are  you  ready  for  your  steeplechase.'  " 

The  Open  Steeplechase A.  B.  Paterson 136 

"  I  had  ridden  over  hurdles  up  the  country  once  or  twice" 

The  Amateur  Eider A.  B.  Paterson 141 

"  Him  going  to  ride  for  us" 

8 


CONTENTS 

Tee  Famous  Ballad  of  the  Jubilee  page 

Cup A.   T.   Quiller-Couch .    .    .  145 

"  Tou  may  lift  me  up  in  your  arms,  lad" 

"THEY'KE   RUNNING— THEY'RE    RUNNING, 
GO  HARK" 

The  Little  Red  Rover R.  E.  Egerton  Warburton  157 

"  The  dewdrop  is  clinging" 

A   Legend  of  the  Cottiswold  .    .  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  .    .  159 

"  I  remember  the  lowering  wintry  mora" 

A  New  Hunting  Song,  Made  on  a 

Fox  Chase Roxburghc  Ballads  ....  162 

"  Come  all  you  Foxhunters  wherever  you  be" 

"  The  Clipper  That  Stands  in  the 

Stall  at  the  Top" G.J.  Whyle-Mellville    .    .166 

"  Go  strip  him,  lad  !     Now,  sir,  I  think  you'll  declare" 

Bolts Anonymous 168 

"  I've  a  head  like  a  violin-case" 

There's   Life    in  the  Old  Horse 

Yet W.  Phillpotts  Williams  .    .170 

"  There's  life  in  him  yet,  see  them  slowly  advancing" 

The    Ballad    of    Hadji    and    the 

Boar Ian  Hamilton 173 

"  As  I  rode  over  the  dusty  waste" 

"FAR  OFF,  AND  EVER  FARTHER  STILL, 
PUSHED  ON  AND  ON" 

Yaquero Joaquin  Miller 185 

"  His  broad-brimm'd  hat  push'd  back" 

The  Man  from  Snowy  River  .    .    .  A.  B.  Paterson 186 

"  There  was  movement  at  the  station" 

In  the  Droving  Days A.  B.  Paterson 192 

"  '  Only  a  pound,'  6aid  the  auctioneer" 

The  Sick  Stockrider Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  .    .  196 

"  Hold  hard,  Ned  I  Lift  me  down  once  more" 

9 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Gate.     From  an  engraving  of  a  painting  by  H.  Hardy 

Frontisfiiece 

"  Forward  !    Hark  forward's  tho  cry  I" 

Greek  Horses.     From  a  photograph  of  two  horses  in  the  frieze 

of  the  Parthenon 15 

"  Hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength  ?     Hast  thou  clothed  his  neck 
with  thunder?" 

Adonis.     From  a  lithograph  of  a  drawing  by  V.  A.  Taw  ...      21 

"  So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common  one 
In  Bhape,  in  courage,  colour,  pace  and  bone" 

An  Arab  Sheik.     From  a  photograph  of  a  painting  by  Shreyer      51 
"But  thou  art,  too,  of  Nedjid's  breed" 

Dragon   en  Vedette.     From  an  etching   by   Jules   Jacquet 

after  a  painting  by  Meissonier 77 

"  No  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine" 

The  Favourite.     From  a  drawing  by  E.  Craven 127 

"  He  looks  like  the  nag  for  the  race  of  the  year" 

A  Hunter.     From  a  photograph  of  "The  Quaker,"  property 

of  H.  C.  Groome,  Esq.,  Airlie,  Virginia 157 

"  With  loins  and  a  back  that  would  carry  a  house, 
And  quarters  to  lift  him  smack  over  a  town" 

A   Cow   Pont.     From   a   photograph    made   at   the   ranch   of 

S.  W.  Col  ton,  Esq.,  McCulloch  County,  Texas 185 

"The  sky  o'erhead, 
Below  wide  wastes  swept  by  the  silent  ceaseless  wind" 


Hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength? 
East  thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder? 

Canst  thou  make  him  afraid  as  a  grasshopper? 
The  glory  of  his  nostrils  is  terrible. 

He  pawcth  in  the  valley,  and  rejoiceth  in  his  strength: 
He  goeth  on  to  meet  the  armed  men. 

He  mocketh  at  fear,  and  is  not  affrighted; 
Neither  turneth  he  back  from  the  sword. 

The  quiver  rattleth  against  him, 
The  glittering  spear  and  the  shield. 

He  swalloweth  the  ground  with  fierceness  and  rage : 
Neither  believeth  he  that  it  is  the  sound  of  the  trumpet. 

He  saith  among  the  trumpets,  Ha,  ha; 

And  he  smelleth  the  battle  afar  off, 

The  thunder  of  the  captains,  and  the  shouting. 

Job,  Chap,  xxxix.,  19-25. 


V 


.   >> 


ALEXANDER    TAMING 
BUCEPHALUS 

"^^ring  forth  the  steed!"     It  was  a  level  plain 

^^^  Broad  and  unbroken  as  the  mighty  sea, 
When  in  their  prison  caves  the  winds  lie  chained. 
There  Philip  sat,  pavilioned  from  the  sun ; 
There,  all  around,  thronged  Macedonia's  hosts, 
Bannered  and  plumed  and  armed — a  vast  array. 
There  too  among  an  undistinguished  crowd, 
Distinguished  not  himself  by  pomp,  or  dress, 
Or  any  royal  sign,  save  that  he  wore 
A  god-like  aspect  like  Olympian  Jove, 
And  perfect  grace  and  dignity, — a  youth, — 
A  simple  youth  scarce  sixteen  summers  old, 
With  swift  impatient  step  walked  to  and  fro. 
E  'en  from  their  monarch 's  throne,  they  turned  to  view- 
Those  countless  congregations, — that  young  form; 
And  when  he  cried  again,  "  Bring  forth  the  steed!" 
Like  thunder  rolled  the  multitudinous  shout 
Along  the  heavens, — ' '  Live,  Alexander ! ' ' 

Then  Philip  waved  his  sceptre, — silence  fell 
O  'er  all  the  plain. —  'Twas  but  a  moment 's  pause, 
While  every  gleaming  banner,  helm,  and  spear 
Sunk  down  like  ocean  billows,  when  the  breeze 
First  sweeps  along  and  bends  their  silvery  crests. 
Ten  thousand  trumpets  rung  amid  the  hail 
Of  armies,  as  in  victory, — "  Live  the  King!" 

15 


ALEXANDER  TAMING  BUCEPHALUS 

And  Philonicus,  the  Pharsalian,  kneeled: 
From  famous  Thessaly  a  horse  he  brought, 
A  matchless  horse.    Vigor  and  beauty  strove 
Like  rival  sculptors  carving  the  same  stone 
To  win  the  mastery ;   and  both  prevailed. 
His  hoofs  were  shod  with  swiftness ;  where  he  ran 
Glided  the  ground  like  water ;  in  his  eye 
Flashed  the  strange  fire  of  spirits  still  untamed, 
As  when  the  desert  owned  him  for  its  lord. 
Mars !    What  a  noble  creature  did  he  seem ! 
Too  noble  for  a  subject  to  bestride, — 
Worth  gold  in  talents ;   chosen  for  a  prince, 
The  most  renowned  and  generous  on  earth. 

' '  Obey  my  son,  Pharsalian !  bring  the  steed ! ' ' 

The  Monarch  spoke.    A  signal  to  the  grooms, 

And  on  the  plain  they  led  Bucephalus. 

* '  Mount,  vassal,  mount !     Why  pales  thy  cheek  with 

fear? 
Mount — ha !  art  slain  ?    Another !  mount  again ! ' ' 
'Twas  all  in  vain. — No  hand  could  curb  a  neck 
Clothed  with  such  might  and  grandeur,  to  the  rein : 
No  thong  or  spur  could  make  his  fury  yield. — 
Now  bounds  he  from  the  earth ;  and  now  he  rears, 
Now  madly  plunges,  strives  to  rush  away, 
Like  that  strong  bird — his  fellow,  king  of  air ! 

"  Quick,  take  him  hence,"  cried  Philip;  "  he  is  wild!" 
* 1  Stay,  father,  stay ! — lose  not  this  gallant  steed, 
For  that  base  grooms  cannot  control  his  ire ! 
Give  me  the  bridle ! ' '    Alexander  threw 
His  light  cloak  from  his  shoulders,  and  drew  nigh. 

16 


ALEXANDER  TAMING   BUCEPHALUS 

The  brave  steed  was  no  courtier :  prince  and  groom 
Bore  the  same  mien  to  him. — He  started  back, 
But  with  firm  grasp  the  youth  retained  and  turned 
His  fierce  eyes  from  his  shadow  to  the  sun, 
Then  with  that  hand,  in  after  years  which  hurled 
The  bolts  of  war  among  embattled  hosts : 
Conquered  all  Greece,  and  over  Persia,  swayed 
Imperial  command, — which  on  Fame's  Temple 
Graved,  Alexander,  Victor  of  the  World! — 
With  that  same  hand  he  smoothed  the  flowing  mane, 
Patted  the  glossy  skin  with  soft  caress, 
Soothingly  speaking  in  low  voice  the  while. 
Lightly  he  vaulted  to  his  first  great  strife. 
How  like  a  Centaur  looked  the  youth  and  steed ! 
Firmly  the  hero  sat ;  his  glowing  cheek 
Flushed  with  the  rare  excitement ;  his  high  brow 
Pale  with  a  stern  resolve ;  his  lip  as  smiling 
And  his  glance  as  calm,  as  if,  in  dalliance, 
Instead  of  danger,  with  a  girl  he  played. 
Untutored  to  obey,  how  raves  the  steed ! 
Champing  the  bit,  and  tossing  the  white  foam, 
And  struggling  to  get  free,  that  he  might  dart, 
Swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  shivering  bow — 
The  rein  is  loosened.    ' '  Now,  Bucephalus ! ' ' 
Away — away !  he  flies ;  away — away ! 
The  multitude  stood  hushed  in  breathless  awe, 
And  gazed  into  the  distance. 

Lo !  a  speck, — 
A  darksome  speck  on  the  horizon !     'Tis — 
'Tis  he !    Now  it  enlarges :  now  are  seen 
The  horse  and  rider ;  now,  with  ordered  pace, 
The  horse  approaches,  and  the  rider  leaps 

2  17 


ALEXANDER  TAMING   BUCEPHALUS 

Down  to  the  earth  and  bends  his  rapid  pace 
Unto  the  King's  pavilion. — The  wild  steed 
Unled,  uncalled,  is  following  his  subduer. 

Philip  wept  tears  of  joy;  "  My  son,  go  seek 
A  larger  empire ;   for  so  vast  a  soul, 
Too  small  is  Macedonia!" 

Park  Benjamin. 


18 


Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life, 
In  limning  out  a  well-proportioned  steed, 

His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife, 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed; 

So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common  one, 

In  shape,  in  courage,  color,  pace,  and  bone. 

Round-hoof d,  short-joined,  fetlocks  shag  and  long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head,  and  nostrils  wide, 

High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs,  and  passing  strong, 
TJmi  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender  hide: 

Look  what  a  horse  should  have  he  did  not  lack, 

Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back. 

William  Shakespeare. 


£     >. 


«   ■= 


THE    BLOOD    HORSE 

eamarra  is  a  dainty  steed, 
Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 
Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 
With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known ; 
Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 
But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within ! 
His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing, 
And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look,  how  'round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float; 

Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins, 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins, 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Though  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire, — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born, 
Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn ; 
But  his  famous  fathers  dead 
Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 
21 


THE  BLOOD   HORSE 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine ! 

And  yet  he  was  but  friend  to  one 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun, 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green ; 

With  him  a  roving  Bedouin 

He  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day), 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


22 


MULEYKEH 


Xf  a  stranger  passed  the  tent  of  Hoseyn,  he  cried 
"  A  churl's!" 
Or  haply  ' '  God  help  the  man  who  has  neither  salt  nor 
bread!" 
"  Nay,"  would  a  friend  exclaim,  "  he  needs  nor  pity 
nor  scorn 
More  than  who  spends  small  thought  on  the  shore-sand, 
picking  pearls, 
Holds  but  in  light  esteem  the  seed-sort,  bears  instead 
On  his  breast  a  moon-like  prize,  some  orb  which  of 
night  makes  morn. 

1 '  What  if  no  flocks  and  herds  enrich  the  son  of  Sinan  ? 
They  went  when  his  tribe  was  mulct,  ten  thousand 
camels  the  due, 
Blood-value  paid  perforce  for  a  murder  done  of  old. 
'  God  gave  them,  let  them  go!      But  never  since  time 
began, 
Muleykeh,  peerless  mare,  owned  master  the  match  of 
you, 
And  you  are  my  prize,  my  Pearl :  I  laugh  at  men 's 
land  and  gold!' 

"  So  in  the  pride  of  his  soul  laughs  Hoseyn — and  right, 
I  say. 
Do  the  ten  steeds  run  a  race  of  glory?    Outstripping 
all, 
Ever  Muleykeh  stands  first  steed  at  the  victor's  staff. 
23 


mul£ykeh 

Who  started,  the  owner's  hope,  gets  shamed  and  named, 
that  day. 
'  Silence,  or,  last  but  one,  is  '  The  Cuffed,'  as  we  used 
to  call 
Whom  the  paddock's  lord  thrusts  forth.     Right, 
Hoseyn,  I  say,  to  laugh!'  " 

' '  Boasts  he  Muleykeh  the  Pearl  ? ' '  the  stranger  replies : 
"  Be  sure 
On  him  I  waste  nor  scorn  nor  pity,  but  lavish  both 
On  Duhl  the  son  of  Sheyban,  who  withers  away  in 
heart 
For  envy  of  Hoseyn 's  luck.      Such  sickness  admits  no 
cure. 
A  certain  poet  has  sung,  and  sealed  the  same  with  an 
oath, 
'  For  the  vulgar-flocks  and  herds !     The  Pearl  is  a 
prize  apart. '  ' ' 

Lo,  Duhl,  the  son  of  Sheyban  comes  riding  to  Hoseyn 's 
tent, 
And    he    casts    his    saddle    down,    and    enters    and 
"Peace!"  bids  he. 
1 '  You  are  poor,  I  know  the  cause :  my  plenty  shall 
mend  the  wrong. 
'Tis  said  of  your  Pearl — the  price  of  a  hundred  camels 
spent 
In  her  purchase  were  scarce  ill  paid :  such  prudence  is 
far  from  me 
Who  proffer  a  thousand.    Speak !    Long  parley  may 
last  too  long. ' ' 

24 


MULEYKEH 

Said  Hoseyn  ' '  You  feed  young  beasts  a  many,  of  famous 
breed, 
Slit-eared,  unblemished,  fat,  true  offspring  of  Muzen- 
nem: 
There  stumbles  no  weak-eyed  she  in  the  line  as  it 
climbs  the  hill. 
But  I  love  Muleykeh's  face:    her  forefront  whitens  in- 
deed 
Like  a  yellowish  wave's  cream-crest.     Your  camels — 
go  gaze  on  them ! 
Her  fetlock  is  foam-splashed  too.      Myself  am  the 
richer  still. ' ' 

A  year  goes  by :  lo,  back  to  the  tent  again  rides  Duhl. 
"  You   are   open-hearted,   ay — moist-handed,    a   very 
prince. 
Why  should  I  speak  of  sale  ?    Be  the  mare  your  sim- 
ple gift ! 
My  son  is  pined  to  death  for  her  beauty:    my  wife 
prompts  '  Fool, 
Beg  for  his  sake  the  Pearl!     Be  God  the  rewarder, 
since 
God  pays  debts  seven  for  one:    who  squanders  on 
Him  shows  thrift.'  " 

Said  Hoseyn  ' '  God  gives  each  man  one  life,  like  a  lamp, 
-    then  gives 
That  lamp  due  measure  of  oil:    lamp  lighted — hold 
high,  wave  wide 
Its  comfort  for  others  to  share !  once  quench  it,  what 
help  is  left? 

25 


MULEYKEH 

The  oil  of  your  lamp  is  your  son :  I  shine  while  Muleykeh 
lives. 
Would  I  beg  your  son  to  cheer  my  dark  if  Muleykeh 
died? 
It  is  life  against  life:   what  good  avails  to  the  life- 
bereft?" 

Another  year,  and — hist !    What  craft  is  it  Duhl  designs  ? 
He  alights  not  at  the  door  of  the  tent  as  he  did  last 
time, 
But,  creeping  behind,  he  gropes  his  stealthy  way  by 
the  trench 
Half-round  till  he  finds  the  flap  in  the  folding,  for  night 
combines 
With  the  robber — and  such  is  he :  Duhl,  covetous  up  to 
crime, 
Must  wring  from  Hoseyn  's  grasp  the  Pearl,  by  what- 
ever the  wrench. 

"  He  was  hunger-bitten,  I  heard:   I  tempted  with  half 
my  store, 
And  a  gibe  was  all  my  thanks.     Is  he  generous  like 
Spring  dew  ? 
Account  the  fault  to  me  who  chaffered  with  such  an 
one! 
He  has  killed,  to  feast  chance  comers,  the  creature  he 
rode:  nay,  more — 
For  a  couple  of  singing-girls  his  robe  has  he  torn  in 
two: 
I  will  beg!    Yet  I  nowise  gained  by  the  tale  of  my 
wife  and  son. 

26 


MUL^YKEH 

1 '  I  swear  by  the  Holy  House,  my  head  will  I  never  wash 
Till  I  filch  his  Pearl  away.    Fair  dealing  I  tried,  then 
guile, 
And  now  I  resort  to  force.    He  said  we  must  live  or 
die: 
Let  him  die,  then, — let  me  live!    Be  bold — but  not  too 
rash ! 
I  have  found  me  a  peeping-place :   breast,  bury  your 
breathing  while 
I  explore  for  myself !    Now,  breathe !    He  deceived 
me  not,  the  spy ! 

"As  he  said — there  lies  in  peace  Hoseyn — how  happy ! 
Beside 
Stands  tethered  the  Pearl :   thrice  winds  her  headstall 
about  his  wrist: 
Tis  therefore  he  sleeps  so  sound — the  moon  through 
the  roof  reveals. 
And,  loose  on  his  left,  stands  too  that  other,  known  far 
and  wide, 
Buheyseh,  her  sister  born :  fleet  is  she  yet  ever  missed 
The  winning  tail's  fire-flash  a-stream  past  the  thun- 
derous heels. 

11  No  less  she  stands  saddled  and  bridled,  this  second,  in 
ease  some  thief 
Should  enter  and  seize  and  fly  with  the  first,  as  I  mean 
to  do. 
What  then?     The  Pearl  is  the  Pearl:    once  mount 
her  we  both  escape." 
Through  the  skirt-fold  in  glides  Duhl, — so  a  serpent  dis- 
turbs no  leaf 

27 


MULEYKEH 

In  a  bush  as  he  parts  the  twigs  entwining  a  nest :  clean 
through 
He  is  noiselessly  at  his  work :  as  ha  planned,  he  per- 
forms the  rape. 


He  has  set  the  tent-door  wide,  has  buckled  the  girth,  has 

clipped 
.   The  headstall  away  from  the  wrist  he  leaves  thrice 
bound  as  before, 
He  springs  on  the  Pearl,  is  launched  on  the  desert 
like  bolt  from  bow. 
Up  starts  our  plundered  man:    from  his  breast  though 
the  heart  be  ripped, 
Yet  his  mind  has  the  mastery:    behold,  in  a  minute 
more, 
He  is  out  and  off  and  away  on  Buheyseh,  whose 
worth  we  know ! 


And  Hoseyn — his  blood  turns  flame,  he  has  learned  long 
since  to  ride, 
And  Buheyseh  does  her  part, — they  gain — they  are 
gaining  fast 
On  the  fugitive  pair,  and  Duhl  has  Ed-Darraj  to 
cross  and  quit, 
And  to  reach  the  ridge  El-Saban, — no  safety  till  that  he 
spied ! 
And  Buheyseh  is,  bound  by  bound,  but  a  horse-length 
off  at  last, 
For  the  Pearl  has  missed  the  tap  of  the  heel,  the 
touch  of  the  bit. 

28 


MULEYKEH 

She  shortens  her  stride,   she  chafes  at  her  rider  the 
strange  and  queer: 
Buheyseh  is  mad  with  hope — beat  sister  she  shall  and 
must 
Though  Duhl,  of  the  hand  and  heel  so  clumsy,  she 
has  to  thank. 
She  is  near  now,  nose  by  tail — they  are  neck  by  croup — 
joy!  fear! 
What  folly  makes  Hoseyn  shout  ' '  Dog  Duhl,  Damned 
son  of  the  Dust, 
Touch  the  right  ear  and  press  with  your  foot  my 
Pearl's  left  flank!" 

And  Duhl  was  wise  at  the  word,  and  Muleykeh  as  prompt 
perceived 
Who  was  urging  redoubled  pace,  and  to  hear  him  was 
to  obey, 
And  a  leap  indeed  gave  she,  and  evanished  for  ever- 
more. 
And  Hoseyn  looked  one  long  last  look  as  who  all  be- 
reaved, 
Looks,  fain  to  follow  the  dead  so  far  as  the  living  may : 
Then  he  turned  Buheyseh 's  neck  slow  homeward, 
weeping  sore. 

And,  lo  in  the  sunrise,  still  sat  Hoseyn  upon  the  ground 
Weeping:    and  neighbours   came,   the   tribesmen   of 
Benu-Asad 
In  the  vale  of  green  Er-Rass,  and  they  questioned 
him  of  his  grief; 
And  he  told  from  first  to  last  how,  serpent-like,  Duhl  had 
wound 

29 


MULEYKEH 

His  way  to  the  nest,  and  how  Duhl  rode  like  an  ape, 
so  bad ! 
And  how  Buheyseh  did  wonders,  yet  Pearl  remained 
with  the  thief. 

And  they  jeered  him,  one  and  all:    "  Poor  Hoseyn  is 
crazed  past  hope! 
How  else  had  he  wrought  himself  his  ruin,  in  fortune 's 
spite  ? 
To  have  simply  held  the  tongue  were  a  task  for  a 
boy  or  girl, 
And  here  were  Muleykeh  again,  the  eyed  like  an  antelope, 
The  child  of  his  heart  by  day,  the  wife  of  his  breast 
by  night!"— 
' '  And  the  beaten  in  speed ! ' '  wept  Hoseyn :   ' '  You 
never  have  loved  my  Pearl. ' ' 

Robert  Browning. 


30 


BAVIECA 

^^=vhe  King  looked  on  him  kindly,  as  on  a  vassal  true ; 
^^  Then  to  the  King  Ruy  Diaz  spake,  after  reverence 

due: 
"  O  King,  the  thing  is  shameful,  that  any  man  beside 
The  liege  lord  of  Castile  himself  should  Bavieca  ride : 

"  For  neither  Spain  nor  Araby  could  another  charger 

bring 
So  good  as  he,  and  certes,  the  best  befits  my  king. 
But  that  you  may  behold  him,  and  know  him  to  the  core, 
I'll  make  him  go  as  he  was  wont  when  his  nostrils  smelt 

the  Moor. 

"With  that,  the  Cid,  clad  as  he  was  in  mantle  furred  and 

wide, 
On  Bavieca  vaulting,  put  the  rowel  in  his  side ; 
And  up  and  down,  and  round  and  round,  so  fierce  was 

his  career, 
Streamed  like  a  pennon  on  the  wind  Ruy  Diaz '  minivere. 

And  all  that  saw  them  praised  them, — they  lauded  man 

and  horse, 
As  matched  well,  and  rivalless  for  gallantry  and  force ; 
Ne'er  had  they  looked  on  horseman  might  to  this  knight 

come  near, 
Nor  on  other  charger  worthy  of  such  a  cavalier. 

31 


BAVIECA 

Thus,  to  and  fro  a-rushing,  the  fierce  and  furious  steed, 
He  snapped  in  twain  his  hither  rein; — "  God  pity  now 

the  Cid! 
God  pity  Diaz ! ' '  cried  the  lords ; — but  when  they  looked 

again, 
They  saw  Ruy  Diaz  ruling  him  with  the  fragment  of  his 

rein; 
They  saw  him  proudly  ruling,  with  gesture  firm  and 

calm, 
Like  a  true  lord  commanding,  and  obeyed  as  by  a  lamb. 

And  so  he  lead  him  foaming  and  panting  to  the  King ; — 
But  "  No ! ' '  said  Don  Alphonso,  ' '  It  were  a  shameful 

thing 
That  peerless  Bavieca  should  ever  be  bestrid 
By  any  mortal  but  Bivar, — mount,  mount  again,  my 

Cid!" 
Trans,  from  the  Spanish  by  John  Gibson  Lockhart. 


32 


MAZEPPA 

Cwas  after  dread  Pultowa  's  day, 
When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede, 
Around  a  slaughter  'd  army  lay, 
No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed. 

****** 

A  band  of  chiefs ! — alas,  how  few, 

Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinn'd  it;   but  this  wreck  was  true 

And  chivalrous :  upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute, 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed, 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 

And  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak's  shade — 
Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old, 
The  Ukraine 's  Hetman,  calm  and  bold ; 
But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course, 
The  Cossack  prince  rubb'd  down  his  horse, 

Prepared  and  spread  his  meagre  stock ; 
And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 
The  whole  or  portion  offer  'd  then ; 


33 


MAZEPPA 

And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 

With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there, 

To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show, 

And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  woe ; — 

And  then  he  said — '  Of  all  our  band, 

Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 

In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 

Can  less  have  said  or  more  have  done 

Than  thee,  Mazeppa !    On  the  earth 

So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth, 

Since  Alexander's  days  till  now, 

As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou ; 

All  Scythia's  fame  to  thine  should  yield 

For  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field.' 

Mazeppa  answer 'd, — '  111  betide 

The  school  wherein  I  learn  'd  to  ride ! ' 

Quoth  Charles, — '  Old  Hetman,  wherefore  so 

Since  thou  hast  learn  'd  the  art  so  well  ? ' 

Mazeppa  said — '  'Twere  long  to  tell ; 

****** 

And  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 
And  I  will  be  the  sentinel 
Of  this  your  troop. ' — '  But  I  request, ' 
Said  Sweden's  monarch,  '  thou  wilt  tell 
This  tale  of  thine,  and  I  may  reap, 
Perchance,  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep ; 
For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 
The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies. ' 
'Well,  sire,  with  such  a  hope  I'll  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back: 


34 


MAZEPPA 

I  was  a  goodly  stripling  then : 

I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again — 

*  #  *  *  *  *  * 

We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 

Which  led  me  to  that  lady 's  bower 

Was  fiery  Expectation's  dower. 

******* 

For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 

******* 

And  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 

Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 

(Her  lord)  was  something  more  than  wroth — 

******  * 

' '  Bring  forth  the  horse ! ' '    The  horse  was  brought ; 
In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 
A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs ;  but  he  was  wild, 
Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefined — 
'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led : 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong, 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash — 
Away! — away — and  on  we  dash! — 

35 


MAZEPPA 

Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 
Away! — away! — my  breath  was  gone — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on : 
'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 
And  on  he  foam  'd — away ! — away ! — 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launch 'd,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash, 
That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 
"With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 
The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 

There  is  not  of  that  castle-gate, 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left ; 
Nor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass, 
Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall, 
Where  stood  the  hearthstone  of  the  hall ; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass, 
Nor  dream  that  e  'er  that  fortress  was : 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze, 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft, 
And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch 'd  and  blackening  roof, 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 
Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
All  human  dwellings  left  behind ; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
36 


MAZEPPA 

"When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  chequer  'd  with  the  northern  light ; 
Town — village — none  were  on  our  track, 
But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black ; 
And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man.    The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  march  'd  o  'er ; 
And  where  the  Spahi's  hoof  hath  trod, 
The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod ; — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  grey, 


And  fast  we  fled,  away,  away, — 


And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser 's  bristling  mane ; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career ; 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slacken  'd  in  his  speed ; 
But  no — my  bound  and  slender  frame 
"Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might, 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became: 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoll'n  limbs  from  their  agony 
Increased  his  fury  and  affright: 
I  tried  my  voice — 'twas  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow ; 
37 


MAZEPPA 

And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet 's  clang ; 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o  'er : 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

"We  near'd  the  wild  wood — 'twas  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side ; 

•JF  $fa  ■%?  ■}?  4t"  ^p 

'Twas  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 
And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine ; 
But  far  apart — and  well  it  were, 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine — 
The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs ;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarr'd  with  cold — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind ; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track, 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back, 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate  and  hunter's  fire: 
Where  'er  we  flew  they  follow  'd  on, 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
38 


MAZEPPA 

Oh !  how  I  wish  'd  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish — if  it  must  be  so — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe. 
"When  first  my  courser 's  race  begun, 
I  wish  'd  the  goal  already  won ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt !  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain  roe ; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewilder  'd  with  the  dazzling  blast, 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  pass  'd— 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild ; 


The  wood  was  pass  'd ;    'twas  more  than  noon, 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold — 
Prolong  'd  endurance  tames  the  bold ; 


What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 
Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk  ? 
The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roll'd  round, 
I  seem'd  to  sink  upon  the  ground; 


Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh ; 
There  was  a  gleam,  too,  of  the  sky 
39 


MAZEPPA 

Studded  with  stars ; — it  is  no  dream ; 

The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream ! 

The  bright,  broad  river 's  gushing  tide 

Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 

And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 

To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 

The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 

And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffen  'd  limbs  were  rebaptized. 

My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 

And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 

And  onward  we  advance ! 

We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A  haven  I  but  little  prized, 

For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 

How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 

In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 

I  could  not  tell ;  I  scarcely  knew 

If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 


With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 
And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wild  steed 's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 
Up  the  repelling  bank. 
We  gain  the  top ;  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
And  onward,  onward,  onward  seems, 
Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight ; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 
40 


MAZEPPA 

Or  scatter 'd  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light, 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right : 
But  nought  distinctly  seen. 


Onward  we  went,  but  slack  and  slow ; 
His  savage  force  at  length  o  'er  spent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 
Or  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour ; 
But  useless  all  to  me : 
His  new-born  tameness  nought  avail  'd, 
My  limbs  were  bound ;  my  force  had  fail  'd, 
Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  effort  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied — 
But  still  it  was  in  vain ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er, 
Which  but  prolong 'd  their  pain: 
The  dizzy  race  seem  'd  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won : 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun — 
How  slow,  alas,  he  came ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  grey, 
Would  never  dapple  into  day ; 
How  heavily  it  roll  'd  away — 
Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars, 
And  call'd  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 
41 


MAZEPPA 

And  fill  'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

Up  rose  the  sun :  the  mists  were  curl  'd 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around — behind — before; 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river?    Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil ; 
No  sign  of  travel — none  of  toil ; 
The  very  air  was  mute  ; 
And  not  an  insect 's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.    Many  a  werst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  stagger  'd  on ; 
And  still  we  were — or  seem  'd — alone : 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 
No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 
A  trampling  troop ;  I  see  them  come ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance ! 
I  strove  to  cry — my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  thousand  horse — and  none  to  ride ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils — never  stretch 'd  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
42 


MAZEPPA 

And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 

And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod, 

A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 

Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 

As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ; 

The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 

A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 

A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answer  'd,  and  then  fell ; 

With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done ! 

On  came  the  troop — they  saw  him  stoop, 
They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 
His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong : 
They  stop — they  start — they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seem'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 
Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide ; 
They  snort — they  foam — neigh — swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. — 
They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
43 


MAZEPPA 

Nor  him,  nor  me ; — and  there  we  lay, 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 

I  little  deem'd  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

#  #  *  #  # 

I  woke — Where  was  I  ? — Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 


A  slender  girl,  long-hair 'd,  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 

She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire — 
What  need  of  more ! — I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain — 
They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again — 
Me — one  day  o  'er  their  realm  to  reign ! 
Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain, 
Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone, 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne. — 


' '  Comrades,  good  night ! ' '    The  Hetman  threw 
His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree  shade, 
With  leafy  couch  already  made, 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 

44 


MAZEPPA 

To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whene'er 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where: 
His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep 
And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale,  he  wonder 'd  not — 
The  king  had  been  an  hour  asleep. 

George  Gordon  Byron,  Lord  Byron. 


45 


CHIQUITA 

©eautiful!     Sir,  you  may  say  so.     Thar  isn't  her 
match  in  the  county. 
Is  thar,  old  gal, — Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir, — thar 's  velvet !    Whoa !  steady — 

ah,  will  you,  you  vixen ! 
Whoa !  I  say.    Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentleman  look 
at  her  paces. 

Morgan ! — she  ain  't  nothing  else,  and  I  've  got  the  papers 

to  prove  it. 
Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars 

won't  buy  her. 
Briggs  of  Tuolomne  owned  her.     Did  you  know  Briggs 

of  Tuolumne? 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains 

down  in  'Frisco? 

Hedn  't  no  savey,  hed  Briggs.    Thar,  Jack !  that  '11  do, — 

quit  that  f oolin ' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she's  got  her  work  cut 

out  before  her. 
Hosses  is  hosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too,  jockeys  is 

jockeys : 
And  'tain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  hoss 

has  got  in  him. 

46 


CHIQUITA 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got  Flani- 

gan's  leaders? 
Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in 

low  water! 
Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and 

his  nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the 

water  all  round  us ; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek  just 

a-bilin ', 
Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the 

river. 
I  had  the  grey,  and  the  Jedge  has  his  roan,  and  his  nevey, 

Chiquita ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  the  top 

of  the  canon. 

Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chi- 
quita 

Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and,  afore  I  could  yell 
to  her  rider, 

Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge  and 
me  standing, 

And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-flesh  afloat,  and 
a-driftin'  to  thunder! 

Would  ye  b'lieve  it?    That  night  that  hoss,  that  'ar  filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet 

and  dripping: 

47 


CHIQUITA 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Just  as  she  swam  the  Fork, — that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly, 
Chiquita. 

That's  what  I  call  a  hoss!   and — What  did  you  say? — 

Oh,  the  nevey? 
Drownded,  I  reckon, — leastways,  he  never  kem  back  to 

deny  it. 
Te  see  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat;   ye  couldn't  have 

made  him  a  rider ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses — well, 

hosses  is  hosses ! 

Bret  Harte. 


Four  things  greater  than  all  things  are, — 
Women  and  Horses  and  Power  and  War. 

Budyard  Kipling. 


AN    ARAB    SHEIK 
Trom  the  painting  by  Shreyer 


ffi 


EL-AZREK 

[y  only  sequin  served  to  bribe 
A  cunning  mother  of  the  tribe 
To  Mariam's  mind  my  plan  to  bring. 
A  feather  of  the  wild  dove's  wing, 
A  lock  of  raven  gloss  and  stain 
Sheared  from  El-Azrek's  flowing  mane, 
And  that  pale  flower  whose  fragrant  cup 
Is  closed  until  the  moon  comes  up, — 
But  then  a  tenderer  beauty  holds 
Than  any  flower  the  sun  unfolds, — 
Declared  my  purpose.    Her  reply 
Let  loose  the  winds  of  ecstasy: 
Two  roses  and  the  moonlight  flower 
Told  the  acceptance,  and  the  hour, — 
Two  daily  suns  to  waste  their  glow, 
And  then,  at  moonrise,  bliss — or  woe. 

El-Azrek  now,  on  whom  alone 
The  burden  of  our  fate  was  thrown, 
Claimed  from  my  hands  a  double  meed 
Of  careful  training  for  the  deed. 
I  gave  him  of  my  choicest  store, — 
No  guest  was  ever  honored  more. 
With  flesh  of  kid,  with  whitest  bread 
And  dates  of  Egypt  was  he  fed ; 
The  camel 's  heavy  udders  gave 
Their  frothy  juice  his  thirst  to  lave: 
A  charger,  groomed  with  better  care, 
The  Sultan  never  rode  to  prayer. 
5i 


EL-AZREK 

My  burning  hope,  my  torturing  fear, 
I  breathed  in  his  sagacious  ear; 
Caressed  him  as  a  brother  might, 
Implored  his  utmost  speed  in  flight, 
Hung  on  his  neck  with  many  a  vow, 
And  kissed  the  white  star  on  his  brow. 
His  large  and  lustrous  eyeball  sent 
A  look  which  made  me  confident, 
As  if  in  me  some  doubt  he  spied, 
And  met  it  with  a  human  pride. 
"  Enough,  I  trust  thee.     'Tis  the  hour, 
And  I  have  need  of  all  thy  power. 
Without  a  wing,  God  gives  thee  wings, 
And  fortune  to  thy  forelock  clings." 

The  yellow  moon  was  rising  large 
Above  the  Desert's  dusky  marge, 
And  save  the  jackal's  whining  moan, 
And  distant  camel's  gurgling  groan, 
And  the  lamenting  monotone 
Of  winds  that  breathe  their  vain  desire 
And  on  the  lonely  sands  expire, 
A  silent  charm,  a  breathless  spell, 
Waited  with  me  beside  the  well. 
She  is  not  there, — not  yet, — but  soon 
A  white  robe  glimmers  in  the  moon. 
Her  little  footsteps  make  no  sound 
On  the  soft  sand ;  and  with  a  bound, 
Where  terror,  doubt,  and  love  unite 
To  blind  her  heart  to  all  but  flight, 
Trembling,  and  panting,  and  oppressed, 
She  threw  herself  upon  my  breast. 
52 


EL-AZREK 

By  Allah !  like  a  bath  of  flame 
The  seething  blood  tumultuous  came 
From  life's  hot  center  as  I  drew 
Her  mouth  to  mine :  our  spirits  grew 
Together  in  one  long,  long  kiss, — 
One  swooning,  speechless  pulse  of  bliss, 
That  throbbing  from  the  heart's  core,  met 
In  the  united  lips.     Oh,  yet 
The  eternal  sweetness  of  that  draught 
Renews  the  thirst  with  which  I  quaffed 
Love 's  virgin  vintage :   starry  fire 
Leapt  from  the  twilights  of  desire, 
And  in  the  golden  dawn  of  dreams 
The  space  grew  warm  with  radiant  beams, 
Which  from  that  kiss  streamed  o'er  a  sea 
Of  rapture,  in  whose  bosom  we 
Sank  down  and  sank  eternally. 

Now  nerve  thy  limbs,  El-Azrek !    Fling 
Thy  head  aloft,  and  like  a  wing 
Spread  on  the  wind  thy  cloudy  mane ! 
The  hunt  is  up,  their  stallions  strain 
The  urgent  shoulders  close  behind, 
And  the  wide  nostril  drinks  the  wind. 
But  thou  art,  too,  of  Ned j id's  breed, 
My  brother!   and  the  falcon's  speed 
Slant  down  the  storm's  advancing  line 
Would  laggard  be  if  matched  with  thine. 
Still  leaping  forward,  whistling  through 
The  moonlight-laden  air  we  flew; 
And  from  the  distance  threateningly, 
Came  the  pursuer's  eager  cry. 

53 


EL-AZREK 

Still  forward,  forward,  stretched  our  flight 

Through  the  long  hours  of  middle  night ; 

One  after  one  the  followers  lagg'd, 

And  even  my  faithful  'Azrek  flagged, 

Beneath  his  double  burden,  till 

The  streaks  of  dawn  began  to  fill 

The  East,  and  freshening  in  the  race, 

Their  goaded  horses  gained  apace. 

I  drew  my  dagger,  cut  the  girth, 

Tumbled  my  saddle  to  the  earth, 

And  clasped  with  desperate  energies 

My  stallion 's  sides  with  iron  knees ; 

"While  Mariam,  clinging  to  my  breast, 

The  closer  for  that  peril  pressed. 

They  come !  They  come !  Their  shouts  we  hear, 

Now  faint  and  far,  now  fierce  and  near. 

O  brave  El- Azrek !  on  the  track 

Let  not  one  fainting  sinew  slack, 

Or  know  thine  agony  of  flight 

Endured  in  vain !    The  purple  light 

Of  breaking  morn  has  come  at  last. 

O  joy !  the  thirty  leagues  are  past ; 

And,  gleaming  in  the  sunrise,  see, 

The  white  tents  of  the  Aneyzee ! 

The  warriors  of  the  waste,  the  foes 

Of  Shekh  Abdallah's  tribe,  are  those 

Whose  shelter  and  support  I  claim, 

Which  they  bestow  in  Allah 's  name ; 

While,  wheeling  back,  the  baffled  few 

No  longer  venture  to  pursue. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


54 


LOCHINVAR 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the 
best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapons  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late ; 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  hall, 

Among  bride 's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all: 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word), 

"  Oh  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ? ' ' 

'  ■  I  long  woo  'd  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied ; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide; 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

55 


LOCHINVAR 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
' '  Now  tread  we  a  measure ! ' '  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace : 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And   the   bridegroom   stood    dangling  his   bonnet   and 

plume ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'Twere  better  by 

far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochin- 
var. ' ' 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall  door,  and  the  charger  stood 

near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
1 '  She  is  won !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 
They'll  have   fleet   steeds   that   follow,"   quoth   young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby 

clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran; 

56 


LOCHINVAR 

There  was  racing  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne  'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e  'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


57 


THE    KING    OF    DENMARK'S    RIDE 


W 


ord  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 
(Hurry!) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring: 

(Oh!  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl: 
And  his  rose  of  the  isles  is  dying ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed : 

(Hurry!) 
Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need ; 

( Oh !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying ! ) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank ; 
Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank ; 
Bridles  were  slackened  and  girths  were  burst; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 

For  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one ; 

(Hurry!) 
They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  homeward  gone ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying! 
58 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE 

The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  child ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din, 
Then  he  dropped ;  and  only  the  king  rode  in 
Where  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying! 

The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn ; 

(Silence!) 
No  answer  came ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  grey  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide ; 
None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary  ride ; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 

Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary, 
The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying, 
The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to  check ; 
He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger 's  neck : 
"  0  steed — that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying ! ' ' 

Caroline  Norton. 


59 


fi 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE 

|un?    Run?    See  this  flank,  sir,  and  I  do  love  him 
so! 

But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.    Whoa,  Pache,  boy,  whoa. 
No,  you  wouldn't  believe  it  to  look  at  his  eyes, 
But  he 's  blind,  badger  blind,  and  it  happen  'd  this  wise : 

"We  lay  in  the  grass  and  the  sunburnt  clover 

That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great  brown  cover 

Northward  and  southward,  and  west  and  away 

To  the  Brazos,  where  our  lodges  lay, 

One  broad  and  unbroken  level  of  brown. 

"We  were  waiting  the  curtains  of  night  to  come  down 

To  cover  us  trio  and  conceal  our  flight 

With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian  town 

That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride  of  a  night. 

We  lounged  in  the  grass — her  eyes  were  in  mine, 
And  her  hands  on  my  knee,  and  her  hair  was  as  wine 
In  its  wealth  and  its  flood,  pouring  on  and  all  over 
Her  bosom  wine  red,  and  press  'd  never  by  one. 
Her  touch  was  as  warm  as  the  tinge  of  the  clover 
Burnt  brown  as  it  reach 'd  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun. 
Her  words  they  were  low  as  the  lute-throated  dove, 
And  as  laden  with  love  as  the  heart  when  it  beats 
In  its  hot,  eager  answer  to  earliest  love, 
Or  the  bee  hurried  home  by  its  burthen  of  sweets. 

60 


KIT   CARSON'S  RIDE 

"We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 

Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride ; 

"  Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride! 

Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 

Of  red  Comanehes  are  hot  on  the  track 

"When  once  they  strike  it.    Let  the  sun  go  down 

Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 

As  he  peer  'd  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 

Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.    Then  he  jerked  at  his  steed 

And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 

And  then  dropp  'd,  as  if  shot,  with  an  ear  to  the  ground ; 

Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 

"While  his  eyes  were  like  flame,  his  face  like  a  shroud, 

His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 

And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  both  trumpet  and 

reed, — 
"  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassoes,  and  bridle  to  steed, 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed. 
Aye,  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  ride! 
For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 
And  the  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 
I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
"While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire. ' ' 


We  drew  in  the  lassoes,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 

Threw  them  on,  cinched  them  on,  cinched  them  over 

again, 
And  again  drew  the  girth ;   and  spring  we  to  horse, 
"With  head  to  the  Brazos,  with  a  sound  in  the  air 

61 


KIT   CARSON'S   RIDE 

Like  the  surge  of  a  sea,  with  a  flash  in  the  eye, 
From  that  red  wall  of  flame  reaching  up  to  the  sky ; 
A  red  wall  of  flame  and  a  black  rolling  sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blown  hollow  and  hoarse. 


Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 
We  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a  prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the  air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 


Twenty    miles!  .  .  .  thirty   miles!  ...  a    dim    distant 

speck  .  .  . 
Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight ! 
And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  look  'd  to  my  right — 
But  Revels  was  gone ;   I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger ;  I  saw  his  head  drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stooping 
Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
He  rode  neck  to  neck  with  a  buffalo  bull, 
That  made  the  earth  shake  where  he  came  in  his  course, 
The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 
Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowing  hoarse. 
His  keen,  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm  of  his  mane, 
Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again. 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked  through, 
And  Revels  was  gone  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

62 


KIT   CARSON'S   RIDE 

' '  I  look  'd  to  my  left  then — and  nose,  neck  and  shoulder 
Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs, 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvelous  eyes. 
With  a  longing  and  love  yet  a  look  of  despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 
And  flames  leaping  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  horse  falter  'd,  plunged,  fell  and  was  gone 
As  I  reached  through  the  flame  and  I  bore  her  still  on. 
On !   into  the  Brazos,  she,  Pache  and  I — 
Poor,  burnt,  blinded  Pache.    I  love  him  .  .  . 
That's  why. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


63 


THE    ROMANCE     OF    BRITOMARTE 

XT1  tell  you  a  story:  but  pass  the  "  jack," 
And  let  us  make  merry  to-night,  my  men. 
Aye,  those  were  the  days  when  my  beard  was  black — 

I  like  to  remember  them  now  and  then ; 
Then  Miles  was  living,  and  Cuthbert  there — 

On  his  lip  was  never  a  sign  of  down ; 
But  I  carry  about  some  braided  hair, 

That  has  not  yet  changed  from  the  glossy  brown 
That  it  show'd  the  day  when  I  broke  the  heart 
Of  the  bravest  of  destriers,  "  Britomarte." 

Sir  Hugh  was  slain  (may  his  soul  find  grace!) 

In  the  fray  that  was  neither  lost  nor  won 
At  Edgehill — then  to  St.  Hubert's  Chase 

Lord  Goring  despatch 'd  a  garrison — 
But  men  and  horses  were  ill  to  spare, 

And  ere  long  the  soldiers  were  shifted  fast. 
As  for  me,  I  never  was  quartered  there 

Till  Marston  Moor  had  been  lost ;   at  last, 
As  luck  would  have  it,  alone  and  late 
In  the  night,  I  rode  to  the  northern  gate. 

64 


THE   ROMANCE  OF   BRITOMARTE 

I  thought,  as  I  pass  'd  through  the  moonlit  park, 

On  the  boyish  days  I  used  to  spend 
In  the  halls  of  the  knight  lying  stiff  and  stark — 

Thought  on  his  lady,  my  father's  friend 
(Mine,  too,  in  spite  of  my  sinister  bar, 

But  with  that  my  story  has  naught  to  do)  ; 
She  died  the  winter  before  the  war — 

Died  giving  birth  to  the  baby  Hugh. 
He  pass  'd  ere  the  green  leaves  clothed  the  bough, 
And  the  orphan  girl  was  the  heiress  now. 

"When  I  was  a  rude  and  a  reckless  boy, 

And  she  a  brave  and  beautiful  child, 
I  was  her  page,  her  playmate,  her  toy ; 

I  have  crown 'd  her  hair  with  the  field-flowers  wild, 
Cowslip  and  crow-foot,  and  colt's-foot  bright; 

I  have  carried  her  miles  when  the  woods  were  wet, 
I  have  read  her  romances  of  dame  and  knight ; 

She  was  my  princess,  my  pride,  my  pet. 
There  was  then  this  proverb  us  twain  between, 
For  the  glory  of  God  and  of  Gwendoline. 

She  had  grown  to  a  maiden  wonderful  fair, 

But  for  years  I  had  scarcely  seen  her  face. 
Now,  with  troopers  Holdsworth,  Huntly,  and  Clare, 

Old  Miles  kept  guard  at  St.  Hubert's  Chase, 
And  the  chatelaine  was  a  Mistress  Ruth, 

Sir  Hugh's  half-sister,  an  ancient  dame; 
But  a  mettlesome  soul  had  she  forsooth, 

As  she  show'd  when  the  time  of  her  trial  came. 
I  bore  despatches  to  Miles  and  to  her 
To  warn  them  against  the  bands  of  Kerr. 
5  65 


THE  ROMANCE  OF   BRITOMARTE 

And  mine  would  have  been  a  perilous  ride 

With  the  rebel  horsemen — we  knew  not  where 
They  were  scattered  over  that  country  side, — 

If  it  had  not  been  for  my  brave  brown  mare. 
She  was  iron-sinew'd  and  satin-skinn 'd, 

Ribb'd  like  a  drum  and  limb'd  like  a  deer, 
Fierce  as  the  fire  and  fleet  as  the  wind ; 

There  was  nothing  she  couldn  't  climb  or  clear. 
Rich  lords  had  vex'd  me,  in  vain,  to  part, 
For  their  gold  and  silver,  with  Britomarte. 

Next  morn  we  muster  'd  scarce  half  a  score 

With  the  serving  men,  who  were  poorly  arm'd; 
Five  soldiers,  counting  myself,  no  more ; 

And  a  culverin,  which  might  well  have  harm'd 
Us,  had  we  used  it,  but  not  our  foes — 

When,  with  horses  and  foot,  to  our  doors  they  came, 
And  a  psalm-singer  summon 'd  us  (through  his  nose), 

And  deliver 'd — "  This,  in  the  people's  name, 
Unto  whoso  holdeth  this  fortress  here, 
Surrender!   or  bide  the  siege — John  Kerr." 

'Twas  a  mansion  built  in  a  style  too  new, 

A  castle  by  courtesy — he  lied 
Who  called  it  a  fortress,  yet,  'tis  true, 

It  had  been  indifferently  fortified; 
We  were  well  provided  with  bolt  and  bar ; 

And  while  I  hurried  to  place  our  men, 
Old  Miles  was  called  to  a  council  of  war 

With  Mistress  Ruth  and  with  her,  and  when 
They  had  argued  loudly  and  long,  those  three, 
They  sent,  as  a  last  resource,  for  me. 

66 


THE  ROMANCE  OF   BRITOMARTE 

In  the  chair  of  state  sat  erect  Dame  Ruth: 

She  had  cast  aside  her  embroidery : 
She  had  been  a  beauty,  they  say,  in  her  youth, 

There  was  much  fierce  fire  in  her  bold  black  eye. 
"  Am  I  deceived  in  you  both?"  quoth  she. 

"  If  one  spark  of  her  father's  spirit  lives 
In  this  girl  here — so,  this  Leigh,  Ralph  Leigh, 

Let  us  hear  what  counsel  the  springald  gives." 
Then  I  stammer  'd,  somewhat  taken  aback — 
(Simon,  you  ale-swiller,  pass  the  "  jack"). 

The  dame  wax  'd  hotter — ' '  Speak  out,  lad,  say, 

Must  we  fall  in  that  canting  caitiff's  power? 
Shall  we  yield  to  a  knave  and  a  turncoat  ?    Nay, 

I  had  liever  leap  from  our  topmost  tower. 
For  a  while  we  can  surely  await  relief : 

Our  walls  are  high  and  our  doors  are  strong. ' ' 
This  Kerr  was  indeed  a  canting  thief — 

I  know  not  rightly,  some  private  wrong 
He  had  done  Sir  Hugh,  but  I  know  this  much, 
Traitor  or  turncoat  he  suffered  as  such. 

Quoth  Miles,  ' '  Enough !   your  will  shall  be  done ; 

Relief  may  arrive  by  the  merest  chance, 
But  your  house  ere  dusk  will  be  lost  and  won ; 

They  have  got  three  pieces  of  ordnance. ' ' 
Then  I  cried,  "  Lord  Guy,  with  four  troops  of  horse, 

Even  now  is  biding  at  Westbrooke  town ; 
If  a  rider  could  break  through  the  rebel  force, 

He  would  bring  relief  ere  the  sun  goes  down ; 
Through  the  postern  door  could  I  make  one  dart, 
I  could  baffle  them  all  upon  Britomarte." 

67 


THE  ROMANCE   OF   BRITOMARTE 

Miles  mutter  'd  ' '  Madness ! ' '    Dame  Ruth  look  'd  grave, 

Said  "  True,  though  we  cannot  keep  one  hour 
The  courtyard,  no,  nor  the  stables  save, 

They  will  have  to  batter  piecemeal  the  tower, 
And  thus "    But  suddenly  she  halted  there. 

"With  a  shining  hand  on  my  shoulder  laid, 
Stood  Gwendoline.    She  had  left  her  chair, 

And,  "  Nay,  if  it  needs  must  be  done,"  she  said, 
"  Ralph  Leigh  will  gladly  do  it,  I  ween, 
For  the  glory  of  God  and  of  Gwendoline. ' ' 

I  had  undertaken  a  heavier  task 

For  a  lighter  word.     I  saddled  with  care, 
Nor  cumber 'd  myself  with  corselet  nor  casque 

(Being  loth  to  burden  the  brave  brown  mare). 
Young  Clare  kept  watch  on  the  wall — he  cried, 

' '  Now,  haste,  Ralph !  this  is  the  time  to  seize ; 
The  rebels  are  round  us  on  every  side, 

But  here  they  straggle  by  twos  and  threes." 
Then  out  I  led  her,  and  up  I  sprung, 
And  the  postern  door  on  its  hinges  swung. 

I  had  drawn  this  sword — you  may  draw  it  and  feel, 

For  this  is  the  blade  that  I  bore  that  day — 
There 's  a  notch  even  now  on  the  long  grey  steel, 

A  nick  that  has  never  been  rasp'd  away. 
I  bow'd  my  head  and  I  buried  my  spurs, 

One  bound  brought  the  gliding  green  beneath; 
I  could  tell  by  her  back-flung,  flatten  'd  ears, 

She  had  fairly  taken  the  bit  in  her  teeth — 
(What,  Jack,  have  you  drain 'd  your  namesake  dry, 
Left  nothing  to  quench  the  thirst  of  a  fly?) 

68 


THE   ROMANCE   OF  BRITOMARTE 

These  things  are  done,  and  are  done  with,  lad, 

In  far  less  time  than  your  talker  tells. 
The  sward  with  their  hoof-strokes  shook  like  mad, 

And  rang  with  their  carbines  and  petronels ; 
And  they  shouted,  "  Cross  him  and  cut  him  off," 

"Surround  him,"  "Seize  him,"  "Capture  the  clown, 
Or  kill  him,"  "  Shall  he  escape  to  scoff 

In  your  faces?"    "  Shoot  him  or  cut  him  down." 
And  their  bullets  whistled  on  every  side : 
Many  were  near  us  and  more  were  wide. 

Not  a  bullet  told  upon  Britomarte; 

Suddenly  snorting,  she  launched  along; 
So  the  osprey  dives  where  the  seagulls  dart, 

So  the  falcon  swoops  where  the  kestrels  throng; 
And  full  in  my  front  one  pistol  flash 'd, 

And  right  in  my  path  their  sergeant  got. 
How  our  jack-boots  jarr'd,  how  our  stirrups  clash 'd, 

While  the  mare  like  a  meteor  past  him  shot ; 
But  I  clove  his  skull  with  a  backstroke  clean, 
For  the  glory  of  God  and  of  Gwendoline. 

And,  as  one  whom  the  fierce  wind  storms  in  the  face 

With  spikes  of  hail  and  with  splinters  of  rain, 
I,  while  we  fled  through  St.  Hubert's  Chase, 

Bent  till  my  cheek  was  amongst  her  mane. 
To  the  north  full  a  league  of  the  deer-park  lay, 

Smooth,  springy  turf,  and  she  fairly  flew, 
And  the  sound  of  their  hoof -strokes  died  away, 

And  their  far  shots  faint  in  the  distance  grew. 
Loudly  I  laughed,  having  won  the  start, 
At  the  folly  of  following  Britomarte. 

69 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   BRITOMARTE 

They  had  posted  a  guard  at  the  northern  gate — 

Some  dozen  of  pikemen  and  musketeers. 
To  the  tall  park  palings  I  turn'd  her  straight; 

She  veer'd  in  her  flight  as  the  swallow  veers. 
And  some  blew  matches  and  some  drew  swords, 

And  one  of  them  wildly  hurl'd  his  pike, 
But  she  clear 'd  by  inches  the  oaken  boards, 

And  she  carried  me  yards  beyond  the  dyke; 
Then  gaily  over  the  long  green  down 
We  gallop 'd,  heading  for  Westbrooke  town. 

The  green  down  slopes  to  the  great  grey  moor, 

The  grey  moor  sinks  to  the  gleaming  Skelt — 
Sudden  and  sullen,  and  swift  and  sure, 

The  whirling  water  was  round  my  belt. 
She  breasted  the  bank  with  a  savage  snort, 

And  a  backward  glance  of  her  bloodshot  eye, 
And  Our  Lady  of  Andover's  flashed  like  thought, 

And  flitted  St.  Agatha's  nunnery, 
And  the  firs  at  The  Ferngrove  fled  on  the  right, 
And  Falconer's  Tower  on  the  left  took  flight. 

And  over  the  Ravenswold  we  raced — 

We  rounded  the  hill  by  The  Hermit's  Well — 
We  burst  on  the  Westbrooke  Bridge — "  What  haste? 

What  errand?"  shouted  the  sentinel. 
"  To  Beelzebub  with  the  Brewer's  knave." 

' '  Carolus  Rex  and  he  of  the  Rhine ! ' ' 
Galloping  past  him,  I  got  and  gave 

In  the  gallop  password  and  countersign, 
All  soak'd  with  water  and  soil'd  with  mud, 
With  the  sleeve  of  my  jerkin  half  drench 'd  in  blood. 

70 


THE   ROMANCE  OF   BRITOMARTE 

Now,  Heaven  be  praised  that  I  found  him  there — 

Lord  Guy.     He  said,  having  heard  my  tale, 
"  Leigh,  let  my  own  man  look  to  your  mare, 

Rest  and  recruit  with  our  wine  and  ale ; 
But  first  must  our  surgeon  attend  to  you ; 

You  are  somewhat  shrewdly  stricken,  no  doubt. ' ' 
Then  he  snatched  a  horn  from  the  wall  and  blew, 

Making  "  Boot  and  Saddle"  ring  sharply  out. 
"  Have  I  done  good  service  this  day?"  quoth  I. 
"  Then  I  will  ride  back  in  your  troop,  Lord  Guy." 

In  the  street  I  heard  how  the  trumpets  peal'd, 

And  I  caught  the  gleam  of  a  morion 
From  the  window — then  to  the  door  I  reel'd; 

I  had  lost  more  blood  than  I  reckon  'd  upon ; 
He  eyed  me  calmly  with  keen  grey  eyes — 

Stern  grey  eyes  of  a  steel-blue  grey — 
Said,  "  The  wilful  man  can  never  be  wise, 

Nathless  the  wilful  must  have  his  way." 
And  he  pour'd  from  a  flagon  some  fiery  wine, 
I  drain 'd  it  and  straightway  strength  was  mine. 

I  was  with  them  all  the  way  on  the  brown — 

"  Guy  to  the  rescue!"  "  God  and  the  king!" 
"We  were  just  in  time,  for  the  doors  were  down ; 

And  didn  't  our  sword-blades  rasp  and  ring  ? 
And  didn't  we  hew,  and  didn't  we  hack? 

The  sport  scarce  lasted  minutes  ten — 
( Aye,  those  were  the  days  when  my  beard  was  black ; 

I  like  to  remember  them  now  and  then)  — 
Though  they  fought  like  fiends,  we  were  four  to  one, 
And  we  captured  those  that  refused  to  run. 

7i 


THE  ROMANCE  OF   BRITOMARTE 

We  have  not  forgotten  it,  Cuthbert,  boy ! 

That  supper  scene  when  the  lamps  were  lit; 
How  the  women  (some  of  them)  sobbed  for  joy, 

How  the  soldiers  drank  the  deeper  for  it; 
How  the  dame  did  honours,  and  Gwendoline, 

How  grandly  she  glided  into  the  hall, 
How  she  stoop  'd  with  the  grace  of  a  girlish  queen, 

And  kiss  'd  me  gravely  before  them  all ; 
And  the  stern  Lord  Guy,  how  gaily  he  laugh 'd, 
Till  more  of  his  cup  was  spilt  than  quaff 'd. 

Brown  Britomarte  lay  dead  in  her  straw 

Next  morning — we  buried  her — brave  old  girl ! 
John  Kerr,  we  tried  him  by  martial  law, 

And  we  twisted  some  hemp  for  the  trait  'rous  churl ; 
And  she — I  met  her  alone — said  she, 

' '  You  have  risk  'd  your  life,  you  have  lost  your  mare, 
And  what  can  I  give  in  return,  Ralph  Leigh?" 

I  replied,  "  One  braid  of  that  bright  brown  hair." 
And  with  that  she  bowed  her  beautiful  head, 
1 '  You  can  take  as  much  as  you  choose, ' '  she  said. 

And  I  took  it — it  may  be,  more  than  enough — 

And  I  shore  it  rudely,  close  to  the  roots. 
The  wine  or  wounds  may  have  made  me  rough, 

And  men  at  the  bottom  are  merely  brutes. 
Three  weeks  I  slept  at  St.  Hubert's  Chase; 

When  I  woke  from  the  fever  of  wounds  and  wine 
I  could  scarce  believe  that  the  ghastly  face 

That  the  glass  reflected  was  really  mine. 
I  sought  the  hall — where  a  wedding  had  been — 
The  wedding  of  Guy  and  of  Gwendoline. 

72 


THE   ROMANCE  OF  BRITOMARTE 

The  romance  of  a  grizzled  old  trooper's  life 

May  make  you  laugh  in  your  sleeves ;  laugh  out, 
Lads;   we  have  most  of  us  seen  some  strife; 

We  have  all  of  us  had  some  sport,  no  doubt. 
I  have  won  some  honour  and  gain'd  some  gold, 

Now  that  our  king  returns  to  his  own ; 
If  the  pulses  beat  slow,  if  the  blood  runs  cold, 

And  if  friends  have  faded  and  loves  have  flown, 
Then  the  greater  reason  is  ours  to  drink, 
And  the  more  we  swallow  the  less  we  shall  think. 

At  the  battle  of  Naseby,  Miles  was  slain, 

And  Huntly  sank  from  his  wounds  that  week ; 
We  left  young  Clare  upon  Worcester  plain — 

How  the  "  Ironside"  gash'd  his  girlish  cheek. 
Aye,  strut,  and  swagger,  and  ruffle  anew, 

Gay  gallants,  now  that  the  war  is  done ! 
They  fought  like  fiends  (give  the  fiend  his  due)  — 

We  fought  like  fops,  it  was  thus  they  won. 
Holdsworth  is  living  for  aught  I  know, 
At  least  he  was  living  two  years  ago. 

And  Guy — Lord  Guy — so  stately  and  stern, 

He  is  changed,  I  met  him  at  Winchester; 
He  has  grown  quite  gloomy  and  taciturn. 

Gwendoline ! — why  do  you  ask  for  her  ? 
Died,  as  her  mother  had  died  before — 

Died  giving  birth  to  the  baby  Guy ! 
Did  my  voice  shake  ?    Then  am  I  fool  the  more. 

Sooner  or  later  we  all  must  die: 
But,  at  least,  let  us  live  while  we  live  to-night, 
The  days  may  be  dark,  but  the  lamps  are  bright. 

73 


THE   ROMANCE  OF  BRITOMARTE 

For  to  me  the  sunlight  seems  worn  and  wan: 

The  sun,  he  is  losing  his  splendour  now — 
He  can  never  shine  as  of  old  he  shone 

On  her  glorious  hair  and  glittering  brow. 
Ah !  those  days  that  were,  when  my  beard  was  black, 

Now  I  have  only  the  nights  that  are. 
"What,  landlord,  ho !  bring  in  haste  burnt  sack, 

And  a  flask  of  your  fiercest  usquebaugh. 
You,  Cuthbert !  surely  you  know  by  heart 
The  story  of  her  and  of  Britomarte. 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 


74 


A  horse!  a  horse!    My  kingdom  for  a  horse! 

William  Shakespeare. 


Published  and  copyrigfc 


DRAGON    EN    VEDETTE 
From  the  painting  by  Meissonier 


THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND 
WEST 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the 
twain  shall  meet, 
Till   Earth   and   Sky   stand  presently   at   God's   great 

Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border,  nor  Breed, 

nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho'  they  come 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Border  side, 
And  he  has  lifted  the  Colonel's  mare  that  is  the  Colo- 
nel 's  pride : 
He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  between  the 

dawn  and  the  day, 
And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden  her 

far  away. 
Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a  troop  of 

the  Guides : 
"  Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say  where 

Kamal  hides?" 
Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed  Khan,  the  son  of  the 

Ressaldar, 
"  If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist,  ye  know 

where  his  pickets  are. 

77 


THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he  is  into  Bo- 

nair, 
But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own  place  to 

fare, 
So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a  bird  can 

fly, 
By  the  favour  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he  win 

to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
But  if  he  be  passed  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  right  swiftly 

turn  ye  then, 
For  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain  is 

sown  with  Kamal's  men. 
There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and  low 

lean  thorn  between, 
And  ye  may  hear  a  breech-bolt  snick  where  never  a  man 

is  seen." 
The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw  rough 

dun  was  he, 
With  the  mouth  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of  Hell,  and 

the  head  of  the  gallows-tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they  bid  him 

stay  to  eat — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not  long 

at  his  meat. 
He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  he  can 

fly, 

Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in  the  gut  of  the 

Tongue  of  Jagai, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father 's  mare  with  Kamal  upon 

her  back, 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he  made 

the  pistol  crack. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   EAST   AND  WEST 

He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whistling 

ball  went  wide. 
"  Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,"  Kamal  said.    "  Show  now  if 

ye  can  ride." 
It's  up  and  over  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown  dust- 
devils  go, 
The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare  like  a 

barren  doe. 
The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged  his  head 

above, 
But  the   red  mare   played  with  the   snaffle-bars,   as  a 

maiden  plays  with  a  glove. 
There  was  rock  to  the  left  and  rock  to  the  right,  and 

low  lean  thorn  between, 
And  thrice  he  heard  a  breech-bolt  snick  tho'  never  a 

man  was  seen. 
They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky,  their 

hoofs  drum  up  the  dawn, 
The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare  like 

a  new-roused  fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course — in  a  woful  heap  fell 

he, 
And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back,  and  pulled 

the  rider  free. 
He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — small  room 

was  there  to  strive, 
"  'Twas  only  by  favour  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "  ye  rode 

so  long  alive : 
There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was  not 

a  clump  of  tree, 
But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with  his  rifle  cocked 

on  his  knee. 

79 


THE  BALLAD   OF   EAST   AND  WEST 

If  I  had  raised  my  bridle  hand,  as   I   have  held  it 

low, 
The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast,  were  feasting  all  in 

a  row: 
If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I  have  held 

it  high, 
The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were  gorged  till  she 

could  not  fly." 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel 's  son : — ' '  Do  good  to  bird 

and  beast, 
But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats  before  thou 

makest  a  feast. 
If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry  my 

bones  away, 
Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than  a 

thief  could  pay. 
They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing  crop,  their 

men  on  the  garnered  grain, 
The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires  when  all 

the  cattle  are  slain. 
But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  fair, — thy  brethren 

wait  to  sup, 
The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn, — howl,  dog,  and 

call  them  up ! " 
And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in  steer  and 

gear  and  stack, 
Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight  my  own 

way  back!" 
Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set  him  upon 

his  feet. 
"  No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "  when  wolf  and 

grey  wolf  meet. 

80 


THE   BALLAD   OF   EAST   AND  WEST 

May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed  or 
breath ; 

What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to  jest  at  the 
dawn  with  Death?" 

Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son:    "  I  hold  by  the 
blood  of  my  clan : 

Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift — by  God,  she 
has  carried  a  man!" 

The  red  mare  ran  to  the   Colonel's  son,  and  nuzzled 
against  his  breast, 

"  We  be  two  strong  men,"  said  Kamal  then,  "  but  she 
loveth  the  younger  best. 

So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise- 
studded  rein, 

My  broidered  saddle  and  saddle-cloth,  and  silver  stir- 
rups twain." 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it  muzzle- 
end, 

"  Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he;    "  will 
ye  take  the  mate  from  a  friend?" 

1 '  A  gift  for  a  gift, ' '  said  Kamal  straight ;   ' '  a  limb  for 
the  risk  of  a  limb. 

Thy  father  has  sent  his  son  to  me,  I'll  send  my  son  to 
him!" 

With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  that  dropped  from 
a  mountain-crest — 

He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring,  and  he  looked 
like  a  lance  in  rest. 

"  Now  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "  who  leads  a 
troop  of  the  Guides, 

And  thou  must  ride  at  his  left  side  as  shield  on  shoul- 
der rides. 
6  81 


THE  BALLAD  OF   EAST   AND  WEST 

Till  Death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp  and  board  and 

bed, 
Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him  with  thy 

head. 
So  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and  all  her 

foes  are  thine, 
And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for  the  peace  of 

the  Border-line, 
And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and  hack  thy  way 

to  power — 
Belike  they  will  raise  thee  to  Ressaldar  when  I   am 

hanged  in  Peshawur. " 
They  have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes,  and  there 

they  found  no  fault, 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on 

leavened  bread  and  salt: 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on 

fire  and  fresh  cut  sod, 
On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife,  and  the 

Wondrous  Names  of  God. 
The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare  and  Kamal's  boy 

the  dun, 
And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Bukloh  where  there 

went  forth  but  one. 
And  when  they  drew  to  the  Quarter-Guard,  full  twenty 

swords  flew  clear — 
There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with  the  blood 

of  the  mountaineer. 
"Ha'  done!  ha'  done!"  said  the  Colonel's  son.     "  Put 

up  the  steel  at  your  sides ! 
Last  night  ye  had  struck  at  a  Border  thief — to-night 

'tis  a  man  of  the  Guides." 
82 


THE   BALLAD   OF  EAST   AND  WEST 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  two 

shall  meet, 
Till   Earth   and   Sky   stand  presently   at   God's   great 

Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border,  nor  Breed, 

nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho1  they  come 

from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


83 


THE    LEAP    OF    ROUSHAN    BEG 


CD 


^ounted  on  Kyrat  strong  and  fleet, 
His  chestnut  steed  with  four  white  feet, 
Roushan  Beg,  called  Kurroglou, 
Son  of  the  road  and  bandit  chief, 
Seeking  refuge  and  relief, 

Up  the  mountain  pathway  flew. 

Such  was  Kyrat's  wondrous  speed, 
Never  yet  could  any  steed 

Reach  the  dust-cloud  in  his  course. 
More  than  maiden,  more  than  wife, 
More  than  gold,  and  next  to  life, 

Roushan  the  Robber  loved  his  horse. 

In  the  land  that  lies  beyond 
Erzeroum  and  Trebizond, 

Garden-girt  his  fortress  stood ; 
Plundered  khan,  or  caravan 
Journeying  north  from  Koordistan, 

Gave  him  wealth  and  wine  and  food. 

Seven  hundred  and  fourscore 
Men  at  arms  his  livery  wore, 

Did  his  bidding  night  and  day. 
Now,  through  regions  all  unknown, 
He  was  wandering,  lost,  alone, 

Seeking  without  guide  his  way. 
84 


THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN   BEG 

Suddenly  the  pathway  ends, 
Sheer  the  precipice  descends, 

Loud  the  torrents  roar  unseen ; 
Thirty  feet  from  side  to  side 
Yawns  the  chasm ;   on  air  must  ride 

He  who  crosses  this  ravine. 


Following  close  in  his  pursuit, 
At  the  precipice's  foot, 

Reyhan  the  Arab  of  Arfah 
Halted  with  his  hundred  men, 
Shouting  upward  from  the  glen, 

"  La  Illah  ilia  Allah!" 

Gently  Roushan  Beg  caressed 
Kyrat's  forehead,  neck  and  breast; 

Kissed  him  upon  both  his  eyes; 
Sang  to  him  in  his  wild  way, 
As  upon  the  topmost  spray 

Sings  a  bird  before  it  flies. 

"  0  my  Kyrat,  0  my  steed, 
Round  and  slender  as  a  reed, 

Carry  me  this  peril  through ! 
Satin  housings  shall  be  thine, 
Shoes  of  gold,  O  Kyrat  mine, 

0  thou  soul  of  Kurroglou ! 

"  Soft  thy  skin  as  silken  skein, 
Soft  as  woman's  hair  thy  mane, 

85 


THE   LEAP   OF   ROUSHAN   BEG 

Tender  are  thine  eyes  and  true; 
All  thy  hoofs  like  ivory  shine, 
Polished  bright ;   0,  life  of  mine, 

Leap,  and  rescue  Kurroglou ! ' ' 

Kyrat,  then,  the  strong  and  fleet, 
Drew  together  his  four  white  feet, 

Paused  a  moment  on  the  verge, 
Measured  with  his  eye  the  space, 
And  into  the  air's  embrace 

Leaped  as  leaps  the  ocean  surge. 

As  the  ocean  surge  o'er  sand 
Bears  a  swimmer  safe  to  land, 

Kyrat  safe  his  rider  bore ; 
Rattling  down  the  deep  abyss 
Fragments  of  the  precipice 

Rolled  like  pebbles  on  a  shore. 

Roushan's  tasselled  cap  of  red 
Trembled  not  upon  his  head, 

Careless  sat  he  and  upright ; 
Neither  hand  nor  bridle  shook, 
Nor  his  head  he  turned  to  look, 

As  he  galloped  out  of  sight. 

Flash  of  harness  in  the  air, 
Seen  a  moment  like  the  glare 

Of  a  sword  drawn  from  its  sheath; 
Thus  the  phantom  horseman  passed, 
And  the  shadow  that  he  cast 

Leaped  the  cataract  underneath. 
86 


THE   LEAP   OF   ROUSHAN   BEG 

Reyhan  the  Arab  held  his  breath 
While  this  vision  of  life  and  death 

Passed  above  him.     "  Allahu!" 
Cried  he,  "  In  all  Koordistan 
Lives  there  not  so  brave  a  man 

As  this  Robber,  Kurroglou!" 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


87 


PAUL    REVERES    RIDE 

nisten,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  'Seventy -five : 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry-arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower,  as  a  signal-light,- 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm. ' ' 

Then  he  said  good-night,  and  with  muffled  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
"Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  "  Somerset,"  British  man-of-war: 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon,  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge,  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 


PAUL   REVERES   RIDE 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
"Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack-door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 

Up  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 

Up  the  trembling  ladder,  slender  and  tall, 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 

"Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 

A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  quiet  town, 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  church-yard,  lay  the  dead 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 
And  seeming  to  wThisper,  "  All  is  well!" 
A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  the  secret  dread 
Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

89 


PAUL   REVERES   RIDE 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 
A  line  of  black,  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride, 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  on  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 

And  lo !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry 's  height, 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  that  flies  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all!     And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the 

light, 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

90 


PAUL   REVERES   RIDE 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  oceantides, 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

"When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river-fog, 

That  rises  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

"When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 
"When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 
He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  the  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
"Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
"Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket  ball. 
91 


PAUL   REVERE'S   RIDE 

Tou  know  the  rest.    In  the  books  you  have  read 
How  the  British  regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farmyard-wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance,  and  not  of  fear, — 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  for  evermore ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness,  and  peril,  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  to  listen  and  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beat  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


92 


HOW    THEY    BROUGHT  THE    GOOD 
NEWS    FROM    GHENT    TO    AIX 

X  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 
"  Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  un- 
drew ; 
"  Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through. 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 

Neck   by   neck,    stride    by   stride,   never   changing    our 

place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;   but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see ; 
At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half- 
chime, 
So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,  ' '  Yet  there  is  time ! ' ' 

93 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  NEWS 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
"With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track : 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O  'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ; 
And  the  thick,  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,   Dirck  groaned;    and  cried  Joris,   "  Stay 

spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her, 
We'll   remember    at   Aix," — for   one   heard   the   quick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck   and   staggering 

knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke   the  brittle   bright   stubble  like 

chaff ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 

94 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  NEWS 

1 '  How  they  '11  greet  us ! ' ' — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or 

good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground ; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
"Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from 
Ghent. 

Robert  Browning. 


95 


FROM    THE    WRECK 

i^\urn  out,  boys" — "  What's  up  with  our  super  to- 
^S  night? 

The  man's  mad — Two  hours  to  daybreak  I'd  swear — 
Stark  mad — why,  there  isn't  a  glimmer  of  light." 

"  Take  Bolingbroke,  Alec,  give  Jack  the  young  mare; 
Look  sharp!    A  large  vessel  lies  jamm'd  on  the  reef, 

And  many  on  board  still,  and  some  wash'd  on  shore. 
Hide  straight  with  the  news — they  may  send  some  re- 
lief 

From  the  township ;   and  we — we  can  do  little  more. 
You,  Alec,  you  know  the  near  cuts ;  you  can  cross 

'  The  Sugarloaf  ford  with  a  scramble,  I  think; 
Don 't  spare  the  blood  filly,  nor  yet  the  black  horse ; 

Should  the  wind  rise,  God  help  them!    the  ship  will 
soon  sink. 
Old  Peter's  away  down  the  paddock,  to  drive 

The  nags  to  the  stockyard  as  fast  as  he  can — 
A  life  and  death  matter;   so,  lads,  look  alive." 

Half -dress 'd  in  the  dark,  to  the  stockyard  we  ran. 

There    was    bridling    with    hurry,    and    saddling    with 
haste, 
Confusion  and  cursing  for  lack  of  a  moon ; 
' '  Be  quick  with  these  buckles,  we  've  no  time  to  waste ; ' ' 
"  Mind  the  mare,  she  can  use  her  hind  legs  to  some 
tune." 

96 


FROM   THE   WRECK 

' '  Make  sure  of  the  crossing-place ;  strike  the  old  track, 
They  Ve  fenced  off  the  new  one ;    look  out  for  the 
holes 
On  the  wombat  hill. "    "  Down  with  the  slip  rails ;  stand 
back." 
"  And   ride,   boys,   the  pair   of  you,   ride   for   your 
souls. ' ' 


In  the  low  branches  heavily  laden  with  dew, 

In  the  long  grasses  spoiling  with  deadwood  that  day, 
"Where  the   black  wood,   the  box,   and  the  bastard  oak 
grew, 
Between  the  tall  gum-trees  we  gallop  'd  away — 
"We  crash 'd  through  a  brush  fence,  we  splash 'd  through 
a  swamp — 
We  steered  for  the  north  near  "  The  Eaglehawk's 
Nest"— 


We  bore  to  the  left,  just  beyond  "  The  Red  Camp," 

And   round   the   black   tea-tree   belt   wheel'd   to   the 
west — 
We  cross 'd  a  low  range  sickly  scented  with  musk 

From  wattle-tree  blossom — we  skirted  a  marsh — 
Then  the  dawn  faintly  dappled  with  orange  the  dusk, 

And  peal'd  overhead  the  jay's  laughter  note  harsh, 
And  shot  the  first  sunstreak  behind  us,  and  soon 

The  dim  dewy  uplands  were  dreamy  with  light ; 
And  full  on  our  left  flash 'd  "  The  Reedy  Lagoon," 

And  sharply  "  The  Sugarloaf "  rear'd  on  our  right. 
7  97 


FROM   THE  WRECK 

A  smother 'd  curse  broke  through  the  bushman's  brown 
beard, 
He  turn'd  in  his  saddle,  his  brick-colour 'd  cheek 
Flush 'd    feebly    with    sundawn,    said,    "  Just    what    I 
fear'd; 
Last  fortnight's  late  rainfall  has  flooded  the  creek." 

Black  Bolingbroke  snorted,  and  stood  on  the  brink 

One  instant,  then  deep  in  the  dark,  sluggish  swirl 
Plunged  headlong.    I  saw  the  horse  suddenly  sink, 

Till  round  the  man's  armpits  the  waves  seem'd  to 
curl. 
We  follow 'd, — one  cold  shock,  and  deeper  we  sank 

Than  they  did,  and  twice  tried  the  landing  in  vain; 
The  third  struggle  won  it ;  straight  up  the  steep  bank 

We  stagger 'd,  then  out  on  the  skirts  of  the  plain. 

The  stockrider,  Alec,  at  starting  had  got 

The  lead,  and  had  kept  it  throughout ;  'twas  his  boast 
That  through  thickest  of  scrub  he  could  steer  like  a  shot, 

And  the  black  horse   was  counted  the  best  on  the 
coast. 
The  mare  had  been  awkward  enough  in  the  dark, 

She    was    eager    and    headstrong,    and    barely    half 
broke ; 
She  had  had  me  too  close  to  a  big  stringy-bark, 

And  had  made  a  near  thing  of  a  crooked  sheoak. 

But  now  on  the  open,  lit  up  by  the  morn, 

She  flung  the  white  foam-flakes  from  nostril  to  neck, 
And  chased  him — I  hatless,  with  shirt  sleeves  all  torn 

(For  he  may  ride  ragged  who  rides  from  a  wreck)  — 

98 


FROM   THE  WRECK 

And  faster  and  faster  across  the  wide  heath 

We  rode  till  we  raced.    Then  I  gave  her  her  head, 

And  she — stretching  out  with  the  bit  in  her  teeth — 
She  caught  him,  outpaced  him  and  passed  him  and  led. 

We  neared  the  new  fence;   we  were  wide  of  the  track; 

I  look'd  right  and  left — she  had  never  been  tried 
At  a  stiff  leap.     'Twas  little  he  cared  on  the  black. 

"  You're  more  than  a  mile  from  the  gateway,"  he 
cried. 
I  hung  to  her  head,  touched  her  flank  with  the  spurs 

(In  the  red  streak  of  rail  not  the  ghost  of  a  gap)  ; 
She  shortened  her  long  stroke,  she  pricked  her  sharp 
ears, 

She  flung  it  behind  her  with  hardly  a  rap — 
I  saw  the  post  quiver  where  Bolingbroke  struck, 

And  guessed  that  the  pace  we  had  come  the  last  mile 
Had  blown  him  a  bit  (he  could  jump  like  a  buck). 

We  galloped  more  steadily  then  for  a  while. 

The  heath  was  soon  pass'd,  in  the  dim  distance  lay 

The  mountain.    The  sun  was  just  clearing  the  tips 
Of  the  ranges  to  eastward.     The  mare — could  she  stay  ? 

She  was  bred  very  nearly  as  clean  as  Eclipse ; 
She  led,  and  as  oft  as  he  came  to  her  side,  — 

She  took  the  bit  free  and  untiring  as  yet ; 
Her  neck  was  arched  double,  her  nostrils  were  wide, 

And  the  tips  of  her  tapering  ears  nearly  met — 
"  You're  lighter  than  I  am,"  said  Alec  at  last; 

"  The  horse  is  dead  beat  and  the  mare  isn't  blown. 
She  must  be  a  good  one — ride  on  and  ride  fast, 

You  know  your  way  now."    So  I  rode  on  alone. 

99 


FROM   THE  WRECK 

Still  galloping  forward  we  pass'd  the  two  flocks 

At  M'Intyre's  hut  and  M'Allister's  hill- 
She  was  galloping  strong  at  the  Warrigal  Rocks — 

On  the  Wallaby  Range  she  was  galloping  still — 
And  over  the  wasteland  and  under  the  wood, 

By  down  and  by  dale,  and  by  fell  and  by  flat, 
She  gallop  'd,  and  here  in  the  stirrups  I  stood 

To  ease  her,  and  there  in  the  saddle  I  sat 
To  steer  her.    We  suddenly  struck  the  red  loam 

Of  the  track  near  the  troughs — then  she  reeled  on  the 
rise — 
From  her  crest  to  her  croup  covered  over  with  foam, 

And  blood-red  her  nostrils  and  bloodshot  her  eyes, 
A  dip  in  the  dell  where  the  wattle  fire  bloomed — 

A  bend  round  a  bank  that  had  shut  out  the  view — 
Large    framed    in    the   mild   light   the    mountain   had 
loomed, 

With  a  tall,  purple  peak  bursting  out  from  the  blue. 

I  pull'd  her  together,  I  press 'd  her,  and  she 

Shot  down  the  decline  to  the  Company's  yard, 
And  on  by  the  paddocks,  yet  under  my  knee 

I  could  feel  her  heart  thumping  the  saddle-flaps  hard. 
Yet  a  mile  and  another,  and  now  we  were  near 

The  goal,  and  the  fields  and  the  farms  flitted  past; 
And  'twixt  the  two  fences  I  turned  with  a  cheer, 

For  a  green,  grass-fed  mare    'twas  a  far  thing  and 
fast; 
And  labourers,  roused  by  her  galloping  hoofs, 

Saw  bare-headed  rider  and  foam-sheeted  steed; 
And  shone  the  white  walls  and  the  slate-coloured  roofs 

Of  the  township.     I  steadied  her  then — I  had  need — 

ioo 


FROM   THE   WRECK 

Where   stood   the   old   chapel    (where   stands   the   new 
church — 
Since    chapels    to    churches    have    changed    in    that 
town ) . 
A  short,  sidelong  stagger,  a  long,  forward  lurch, 

A  slight  choking  sob,  and  the  mare  had  gone  down. 
I  slipp'd  off  the  bridle,  I  slackened  the  girth, 

I  ran  on  and  left  her  and  told  them  my  news ; 
I  saw  her  soon  afterwards.    "What  was  she  worth? 
How  much  for  her  hide  ?    She  had  never  worn  shoes. 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 


IOI 


CONROY'S    GAP 

^^C\his  way  the  way  of  it,  don't  you  know — 
^^^  Ryan  was  "  wanted"  for  stealing  sheep, 
And  never  a  trooper,  high  or  low, 

Could  find  him — catch  a  weasel  asleep ! 
Till  Trooper  Scott,  from  the  Stockman's  Ford — 

A  bushman,  too,  as  I  've  heard  them  tell — 
Chanced  to  find  him  drunk  as  a  lord, 

Round  at  the  Shadow  of  Death  Hotel. 

D  'you  know  the  place  ?    It 's  a  wayside  inn, 

A  low  grog-shanty — a  bushman  trap, 
Hiding  away  in  its  shame  and  sin 

Under  the  shelter  of  Conroy's  Gap — 
Under  the  shade  of  that  frowning  range, 

The  roughest  crowd  that  ever  drew  breath — 
Thieves  and  rowdies,  uncouth  and  strange, 

Were  mustered  round  at  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

The  trooper  knew  that  his  man  would  slide 

Like  a  dingo  pup,  if  he  saw  the  chance ; 
And  with  half  a  start  on  the  mountain  side 

Ryan  would  lead  him  a  merry  dance. 
Drunk  as  he  was  when  the  trooper  came, 

To  him  that  did  not  matter  a  rap — 
Drunk  or  sober,  he  was  the  same, 

The  boldest  rider  in  Conroy's  Gap. 


CONROY'S   GAP 

"  I  want  you,  Ryan,"  the  trooper  said, 

"  And  listen  to  me,  if  you  dare  resist, 
So  help  me  heaven,  I  '11  shoot  you  dead ! ' ' 

He  snapped  the  steel  on  his  prisoner's  wrist, 
And  Ryan,  hearing  the  handcuffs  click, 

Recovered  his  wits  as  they  turned  to  go, 
For  fright  will  sober  a  man  as  quick 

As  all  the  drugs  that  the  doctors  know. 

There  was  a  girl  in  that  rough  bar 

Went  by  the  name  of  Kate  Carew 
Quiet  and  shy  as  the  bush  girls  are, 

But  ready-witted  and  plucky,  too. 
She  loved  this  Ryan,  or  so  they  say, 

And  passing  by,  while  her  eyes  were  dim 
"With  tears,  she  said  in  a  careless  way, 

"  The  Swagman's  round  in  the  stable,  Jim." 

Spoken  too  low  for  the  trooper's  ear, 

Why  should  she  care  if  he  heard  or  not  ? 
Plenty  of  swagmen  far  and  near, 

And  yet  to  Ryan  it  meant  a  lot. 
That  was  the  name  of  the  grandest  horse 

In  all  the  district  from  east  to  west 
In  every  show  ring,  on  every  course 

They  always  counted  the  Swagman  best. 

He  was  a  wonder,  a  raking  bay — 

One  of  the  grand  old  Snowdon  strain — 

One  of  the  sort  that  could  race  and  stay 

With  his  mighty  limbs  and  his  length  of  rein. 
103 


CONROY'S  GAP 

Born  and  bred  on  the  mountain  side, 

He  could  race  through  scrub  like  a  kangaroo, 

The  girl  herself  on  his  back  might  ride, 
And  the  Swagman  would  carry  her  safely 
through. 

He  would  travel  gaily  from  daylight's  flush 

Till  after  the  stars  hung  out  their  lamps, 
There  was  never  his  like  in  the  open  bush, 

And  never  his  match  on  the  cattle-camps. 
For  faster  horses  might  well  be  found 

On  racing  tracks,  or  a  plain's  extent, 
But  few,  if  any,  on  broken  ground 

Could  see  the  way  that  the  Swagman  went. 

"When  this  girl's  father,  old  Jim  Carew, 

Was  droving  out  on  the  Castlereagh 
With  Conroy's  cattle,  a  wire  came  through 

To  say  that  his  wife  couldn't  live  the  day. 
And  he  was  a  hundred  miles  from  home, 

As  flies  the  crow,  with  never  a  track, 
Through  plains  as  pathless  as  ocean's  foam, 

He  mounted  straight  on  the  Swagman 's  back. 

He  left  the  camp  by  the  sundown  light, 

And  the  settlers  out  on  the  Marthaguy 
Awoke  and  heard,  in  the  dead  of  night, 

A  single  horseman  hurrying  by. 
He  crossed  the  Bogan  at  Dandaloo, 

And  many  a  mile  of  the  silent  plain 
That  lonely  rider  behind  him  threw 

Before  they  settled  to  sleep  again. 
104 


CONROY'S   GAP 

He  rode  all  night  and  he  steered  his  course 

By  the  shining  stars  with  a  bushman  's  skill, 
And  every  time  that  he  pressed  his  horse 

The  Swagman  answered  him  gamely  still. 
He  neared  his  home  as  the  east  was  bright, 

The  doctor  met  him  outside  the  town : 
"  Carew!     How  far  did  you  come  last  night?" 

"  A  hundred  miles  since  the  sun  went  down." 

And  his  wife  got  round,  and  an  oath  he  passed, 

So  long  as  he  or  one  of  his  breed 
Could  raise  a  coin,  though  it  took  their  last 

The  Swagman  never  should  want  a  feed. 
And  Kate  Carew,  when  her  father  died, 

She  kept  the  horse  and  she  kept  him  well: 
The  pride  of  the  district  far  and  wide, 

He  lived  in  style  at  the  bush  hotel. 

Such  was  the  Swagman ;    and  Ryan  knew 

Nothing  about  could  pace  the  crack; 
Little  he'd  care  for  the  man  in  blue 

If  once  he  got  on  the  Swagman 's  back. 
But  how  to  do  it  ?    A  word  let  fall 

Gave  him  the  hint  as  the  girl  passed  by ; 
Nothing  but  "  Swagman — stable-wall; 

Go  to  the  stable  and  mind  your  eye." 

He  caught  her  meaning,  and  quickly  turned 
To  the  trooper :  ' '  Reckon  you  Ti  gain  a  stripe 

By  arresting  me,  and  it 's  easily  earned ; 
Let's  go  to  the  stable  and  get  my  pipe, 
105 


CONROY'S   GAP 

The  Swagman  has  it."    So  off  they  went, 
And  soon  as  ever  they  turned  their  backs 

The  girl  slipped  down,  on  some  errand  bent 
Behind  the  stable,  and  seized  an  axe. 

The  trooper  stood  at  the  stable  door 

While  Ryan  went  in  quite  cool  and  slow, 
And  then  (the  trick  had  been  played  before) 

The  girl  outside  gave  the  wall  a  blow. 
Three  slabs  fell  out  of  the  stable  wall — 

'Twas  done  'fore  ever  the  trooper  knew — 
And  Ryan,  as  soon  as  he  saw  them  fall, 

Mounted  the  Swagman  and  rushed  him  through. 

The  trooper  heard  the  hoof -beats  ring 

In  the  stable-yard,  and  he  slammed  the  gate, 
But  the  Swagman  rose  with  a  mighty  spring 

At  the  fence,  and  the  trooper  fired  too  late, 
As  they  raced  away,  and  his  shots  flew  wide 

And  Ryan  no  longer  need  care  a  rap, 
For  never  a  horse  that  was  lapped  in  hide 

Could  catch  the  Swagman  in  Conroy  's  Gap. 

And  that's  the  story.    You  want  to  know 

If  Ryan  came  back  to  his  Kate  Carew; 
Of  course  he  should  have,  as  stories  go, 

But  the  worst  of  it  is,  this  story 's  true : 
And  in  real  life  it's  a  certain  rule, 

"Whatever  poets  and  authors  say 
Of  high-toned  robbers  and  all  their  school, 

These  horsethief  fellows  aren't  built  that  way. 
106 


CONROY'S   GAP 

Come  back !    Don 't  hope  it — the  slinking  hound, 

He  sloped  across  to  the  Queensland  side, 
And  sold  the  Swagman  for  fifty  pound, 

And  stole  the  money,  and  more  beside. 
And  took  to  drink,  and  by  some  good  chance 

Was  killed — thrown  out  of  a  stolen  trap. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  this  small  romance, 

The  end  of  the  story  of  Conroy's  Gap. 

A.  B.  Paterson. 


107 


THE    SMUGGLER'S    LEAP 

y^^'he  fire-flash  shines  from  Reculver  cliff, 

^^^  And  the  answering  light  burns  blue  in  the  skiff, 

And  there  they  stand, 

That  smuggling  band, 
Some  in  the  water  and  some  on  the  sand, 
Ready  those  contraband  goods  to  land: 
The  night  is  dark,  they  are  silent  and  still, 
— At  the  head  of  the  party  is  Smuggler  Bill ! 

"  Now  lower  away!   come,  lower  away! 

We  must  be  far  ere  the  dawn  of  day. 

If  Exciseman  Gill  should  get  scent  of  the  prey, 

And  should  come,  and  should  catch  us  here,  what  would 

he  say? 
Come,  lower  away,  lads — once  on  the  hill, 
We'll  laugh,  ho!  ho!  at  Exciseman  Gill!" 
The  cargo's  lower 'd  from  the  dark  skiff's  side, 
And  the  tow-line  drags  the  tubs  through  the  tide, 

No  trick  nor  flam, 

But  your  real  Schiedam. 
' '  Now  mount,  my  merry  men,  mount  and  ride ! ' ' 
Three  on  the  crupper  and  one  before, 
And  the  led-horse  laden  with  five  tubs  more; 

But  the  rich  point-lace, 

In  the  oil-skin  case 
Of  proof  to  guard  its  contents  from  ill 
The  "  prime  of  the  swag"  is  with  Smuggler  Bill! 

108 


THE   SMUGGLER'S  LEAP 

Merrily  now  in  a  goodly  row 

Away  and  away  those  smugglers  go, 

And  they  laugh  at  Exciseman  Gill,  ho !  ho | 

When  from  the  turn 

Of  the  road  to  Heme, 
Comes  Gill,  wide  awake  to  the  whole  concern ! 
Exciseman  Gill,  in  all  his  pride, 
With  his  Custom-house  officers  all  at  his  side! 
— They  were  called  Custom-house  officers  then ; 
There  were  no  such  things  as  "  Preventive  men. 


Sauve  qui  pent! 

That  lawless  crew, 
Away,  and  away,  and  away  they  flew ! 
Some  dropping  one  tub,  some  dropping  two ; — 
Some  gallop  this  way,  and  some  gallop  that, 
Through  Fordwich  Level — o'er  Sandwich  Flat, 
Some  fly  that  way,  and  some  fly  this, 
Like  a  covey  of  birds,  when  the  sportsmen  miss ; 

These  in  their  hurry 

Make  for  Sturry, 
With  Custom-house  officers  close  in  their  rear, 
Down  Eushbourne  Lane,  and  so  by  Westbere, 

None  of  them  stopping 

But  shooting  and  popping, 
And  many  a  Custom-house  bullet  goes  slap 
Through  many  a  three-gallon  tub  like  a  tap, 

And  the  gin  spurts  out 

And  squirts  all  about, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sad  that  day 
That  so  much  good  liquor  was  so  thrown  away. 
109 


THE   SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

Sauve  qui  pent! 

That  lawless  crew, 
Away,  and  away,  and  away  they  flew ! 
Some  seek  Whitstable — some  Grove  Ferry, 
Spurring  and  whipping  like  madmen — very — 
For  the  life !   for  the  life !  they  ride !   they  ride ! 
And  the  Custom-house  officers  all  divide, 
And  they  gallop  on  after  them  far  and  wide! 
All,  all,  save  one — Exciseman  Gill, — 
He  sticks  to  the  skirts  of  Smuggler  Bill! 

Smuggler  Bill  is  six  feet  high, 

He  has  curling  locks,  and  a  roving  eye, 

He  has  a  tongue  and  he  has  a  smile 

Trained  the  female  heart  to  beguile, 

And  there  is  not  a  farmer's  wife  in  the  Isle, 
From  St.  Nicholas  quite 
To  the  Foreland  Light, 

But   that   eye,   and   that   tongue,   and  that   smile   will 
wheedle  her 

To  have  done  with  the  Grocer  and  make  him  her  Tea- 
dealer. 

There  is  not  a  farmer  there  but  he  still 

Buys  gin  and  tobacco  from  Smuggler  Bill. 

Smuggler  Bill  rides  gallant  and  gay 
On  his  dapple-grey-mare,  away,  and  away, 
And  he  pats  her  neck  and  he  seems  to  say, 
"  Follow  who  will,  ride  after  who  may, 

In  sooth  he  had  need, 

Fodder  his  steed, 
In  lieu  of  Lent-corn,  with  a  Quicksilver  feed ; 

no 


THE   SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

Nor  oats,  nor  beans,  nor  the  best  of  old  hay, 
"Will  make  him  a  match  for  my  own  dapple-grey! 
Ho !  ho ! — ho !  ho ! ' '  says  Smuggler  Bill — 
He  draws  out  a  flask  and  he  sips  his  fill, 
And  he  laughs  "  Ho!  ho!"  at  Exciseman  Gill. 


Down  Chislett  Lane,  so  free  and  so  fleet 
Rides  Smuggler  Bill,  and  away  to  Up-street ; 

Sarre  Bridge  is  won — 

Bill  thinks  it  fun ; 
' '  Ho !  ho !  the  old  tub-gauging  son  of  a  gun — 
His  wind  will  be  thick,  and  his  breeks  be  thin, 
Ere  a  race  like  this  he  may  hope  to  win ! ' ' 


Away,  away 

Goes  the  fleet  dapple-grey, 
Fresh  as  the  breeze  and  free  as  the  wind, 
And  Exciseman  Gill  lags  far  behind. 
"  I  would  give  my  soul,"  quoth  Exciseman  Gill, 
' '  For  a  nag  that  would  catch  that  Smuggler  Bill ! — 
No  matter  for  blood,  no  matter  for  bone, 
No  matter  for  colour,  bay,  brown  or  roan, 

So  I  had  but  one ! ' ' 

A  voice  cried  "  Done!" 
' '  Ay,  dun, ' '  said  Exciseman  Gill,  and  he  spied 
A  Custom-house  officer  close  by  his  side, 
On  a  high-trotting  horse  with  a  dun-coloured  hide — 
"  Devil  take  me,"  again  quoth  Exciseman  Gill, 
"  If  I  had  but  that  horse,  I'd  have  Smuggler  Bill!" 

in 


THE   SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

From  his  using  such  shocking  expressions,  it's  plain 
That  Exciseman  Gill  was  rather  profane. 

He  was,  it  is  true, 

As  bad  as  a  Jew, 
A  sad  old  scoundrel  as  ever  you  knew 
And  he  rode  in  his  stirrups  sixteen  stone  two. 
— He'd  just  utter 'd  the  words  which  I've  mention 'd  to 

you, 
When  his  horse  coming  slap  on  his  knees  with  him, 

threw 
Him  head  over  heels,  and  away  he  flew, 
And  Exciseman  Gill  was  bruised  black  and  blue. 

When  he  arose 

His  hands  and  his  clothes 
Were  as  filthy  as  could  be, — he'd  pitch 'd  on  his  nose, 
And  roll'd  over  and  over  again  in  the  mud, 
And    his    nose    and    his    chin    were    all    cover 'd    with 

blood ; 
Yet  he  screamed  with  passion,  "I'd  rather  grill 
Than  not  come  up  with  that  Smuggler  Bill!" 
— ' '  Mount !     Mount ! ' '  quoth  the  Custom-house  officer, 

"get 
On  the  back  of  my  Dun,  you'll  bother  him  yet. 
Your  words  are  plain,  though  they're  somewhat  rough, 
'  Done      and      Done'      between      gentlemen's      always 

enough ! — 
I'll  lend  you  a  lift — there — you're  up  on  him — so, 
He's  a  rum  one  to  look  at — a  devil  to  go!" 

Exciseman  Gill 

Dash'd  up  the  hill, 
And  marked  not,  so  eager  was  he  in  pursuit, 
The  queer  Custom-house  officer's  queer-looking  boot. 

112 


THE   SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

Smuggler  Bill  rides  on  amain 
He  slacks  not  girth  and  he  draws  not  rein, 
Yet  the  dapple-grey  mare  bounds  on  in  vain, 
For  nearer  now — and  he  hears  it  plain — 
Sounds  the  tramp  of  a  horse—"  Tis  the  Gauger  again!" 
Smuggler  Bill 
Dashes  round  by  the  mill 
That  stands  near  the  road  upon  Monkton  Hill, — 
' '  Now  speed, — now  speed, 
My  dapple-grey  steed, 
Thou  ever,  my  dapple,  wert  good  at  need ! 
O'er  Monkton  Mead,  and  through  Minster  Level, 
"We  '11  baffle  him  yet,  be  he  gauger  or  devil ! 

For  Manston  Cave,  away!  away! 
It  shall  never  be  said  that  Smuggler  Bill 
Now   speed    thee,    now   speed    thee,    my    good    dapple- 
grey, 
Was  run  down  like  a  hare  by  Exciseman  Gill!" 
Manston  Cave  was  Bill 's  abode ; 
A  mile  to  the  north  of  the  Kamsgate  road. 
(Of  late  they  say 
It 's  been  taken  away, 
That  is,  levell'd  and  filled  up  with  chalk  and  clay, 
By  a  gentleman  there  of  the  name  of  Day), 
Thither  he  urges  his  good  dapple-grey; 
And  the  dapple-grey  steed, 
Still  good  at  need, 
Though  her  chest  it  pants,  and  her  flanks  they  bleed, 
Dashes  along  at  the  top  of  her  speed; 
But  nearer  and  nearer  Exciseman  Gill 
Cries,   "Yield   thee!    now  yield  thee,   thou   Smuggler 
Bill!" 

8  113 


THE   SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

Smuggler  Bill,  lie  looks  behind, 
And  he  sees  a  Dun  horse  come  swift  as  the  wind, 
And  his  nostrils  smoke  and  his  eyes  they  blaze 
Like  a  couple  of  lamps  on  a  yellow  post-chaise ! 

Every  shoe  he  has  got 

Appears  red  hot! 
And  sparks  round  his  ears  snap,  crackle,  and  play, 
And  his  tail  cocks  up  in  a  very  odd  way; 
Every  hair  in  his  mane  seems  a  porcupine's  quill, 
And  there  on  his  back  sits  Exciseman  Gill, 
Crying  ' '  Yield  thee !  now  yield  thee,  thou   Smuggler 
Bill!" 

Smuggler  Bill  from  his  holster  drew 

A  large  horse-pistol,  of  which  he  had  two! 

Made  by  Nock; 

He  pull  'd  back  the  cock 
As  far  as  he  could  to  the  back  of  the  lock ; 
The  trigger  he  touch 'd,  and  the  welkin  rang 
To  the  sound  of  the  weapon,  it  made  such  a  bang ; 
Smuggler  Bill  ne'er  missed  his  aim, 
The  shot  told  true  on  the  Dun — but  there  came 
From  the  hole  where  it  enter 'd — not  blood, — but  name; 

He  changed  his  plan, 

And  fired  at  the  man ; 
But  his  second  horse-pistol  flashed  in  the  pan ! 
And  Exciseman  Gill,  with  a  hearty  good  will, 
Made  a  grab  at  the  collar  of  Smuggler  Bill. 

The  dapple-grey  mare  made  a  desperate  bound 
When  that  queer  Dun  horse  on  her  flank  she  found, 
Alack !   and  alas !  on  what  dangerous  ground ! 

114 


THE   SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

It's  enough  to  make  one's  flesh  to  creep 
To  stand  on  that  fearful  verge,  and  peep 
Down  the  rugged  sides  so  dreadfully  steep, 
Where  the  chalk-hole  yawns  full  sixty  feet  deep, 
O  'er  which  that  steed  took  that  desperate  leap ! 
It  was  so  dark  then  under  the  trees, 
No  horse  in  the  world  could  tell  chalk  from  cheese — 
Down  they  Went — o'er  that  terrible  fall, — 
Horses,  Exciseman,  Smuggler,  and  all!  ! 


Below  were  found 

Next  day  on  the  ground 
By  an  elderly  gentleman  walking  his  round, 
(I  wouldn't  have  seen  such  a  sight  for  a  pound), 
All  smash 'd,  and  dash'd,  three  mangled  corses, 
Two  of  them  human, — the  third  was  a  horse's — 
That  good  dapple-grey,  and  Exciseman  Gill 
Yet  grasping  the  collar  of  Smuggler  Bill. 


But  where  was  the  Dun  ?  that  terrible  Dun  ? 
From  that  terrible  night  he  was  seen  by  none ! — 
There  are  some  people  think,  though  I  am  not  one, 
That  part  of  the  story  all  nonsense  and  fun, 

But  the  country-folks  there, 

One  and  all  declare, 
"When  the  "  Crowner's'  Quest"  came  to  sit  on  the  pair, 
They  heard  a  loud  Horse-laugh  up  in  the  air ! — 

— If  in  one  of  the  trips 

Of  the  steam-boat  Eclipse 
115 


THE  SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

You  should  go  down  to  Margate  to  look  at  the  ships, 
Or  to  take  what  the  bathing-room  people  call  ' '  Dips, ' ' 

You  may  hear  old  folks  talk 

Of  that  quarry  of  chalk, 
Or  go  over — it's  rather  too  far  for  a  walk, 
But  a  three  shilling-drive  will  give  you  a  peep 
At  that  fearful  chalk-pit — so  awfully  deep, 
"Which    is    call'd    to    this    moment    "  The    Smuggler's 

Leap!" 
Nay  more,  I  am  told,  on  a  moonshiny  night, 
If  you're  "  plucky,"  and  not  over  subject  to  fright, 
And  go  and  look  over  that  chalk-pit  white, 

You  may  see,  if  you  will, 

The  Ghost  of  old  Gill 
Grappling  the  Ghost  of  Smuggler  Bill. 
And  the  Ghost  of  the  dapple-grey  lying  between  'em — 
I  'm  told  so — I  can 't  say  I  know  one  who 's  seen  'em ! 


MORAL 

And  now,  gentle  Reader,  one  word  ere  we  part, 
Just  take  a  friend's  counsel,  and  lay  it  to  heart, 
Imprimis,  don 't  smuggle ! — if  bent  to  please  Beauty, 
You  must  buy  French  lace, — purchase  what  has  paid 

duty! 
Don't  use  naughty  words,  in  the  next  place, — and  ne'er 

in 
Your  language  adopt  a  bad  habit  of  swearing! 
Never  say  ' '  Devil  take  me ! ' ' 
Or  "  shake  me!"— or  "  bake  me!" 
116 


THE   SMUGGLER'S   LEAP 

Or  such  like  expressions — Remember  Old  Nick 
To  take  folks  at  their  word  is  remarkably  quick. 
Another  sound  maxim  I'd  wish  you  to  keep, 
Is,    "  Mind    what    you're    after,    and — Look    ere    you 
Leap!" 

Above  all,  to  my  last  gravest  caution  attend — 
Never  borrow  a  horse  you  donH  knoiv  of  a  friend!  ! 

Thomas  Ingoldsby. 


117 


THE    GROOM'S    STORY 

^^\ en  mile  in  twenty  minutes.     'E  done  it,  sir.    That's 

V^y  true. 

The  big  bay   'orse  in  the  further  stall — the  one  wot's 

next  to  you. 
I've  seen  some  better  'orses;   I've  seldom  seen  a  wuss, 
But  'e  'olds  the  bloomin'  record,  an'  that's  good  enough 

for  us. 

We  knew  as  it  was  in   'im.      'E's  thoroughbred,  three 

part, 
"We  bought  'im  for  to  race  'im,  but  we  found  'e  'ad  no 

'eart ; 
For  'e  was  sad  and  thoughtful,  and  amazin'  dignified, 
It  seemed  a  kind  o'  liberty  to  drive  'im  or  to  ride; 

For  'e  never  seemed  a-thinkin'  of  what  'e  'ad  to  do, 
But   'is  thoughts  was  set  on   'igher  things,  admirin'  of 

the  view. 
'E  looked  a  puffec  pictur,  and  a  pictur  'e  would  stay, 
'E  would  n't  even  switch  'is  tail  to  drive  the  flies  away. 

And  yet  we  knew  't  was  in  'im;    we  knew  as  'e  could 

fly; 

But  what  we  could  n't  git  at  was  'ow  to  make  'im  try. 
We'd  almost  turned  the  job  up,  until  at  last  one  day 
We  got  the  last  yard  out  of  'im  in  a  most  amazin'  way. 

118 


THE   GROOM'S   STORY 

It  was  all  along  o '  master ;  which  master  'as  the  name 
Of  a  reg'lar  true  blue  sportsman,  an'  always  acts  the 

same; 
But  we  all    'as  weaker  moments,  which  master   'e   'ad 

one, 
An'  'e  went  and  bought  a  motor-car  when  motor-cars 

begun. 


I  seed  it  in  the  stable  yard — it  fairly  turned  me  sick — 

A  greasy,  wheezy  engine  as  can  neither  buck  or  kick. 

You've  a  screw  to  drive  it  forrard,  and  a  screw  to  make 
it  stop, 

For  it  was  foaled  in  a  smithy  stove  an'  bred  in  a  black- 
smith shop. 


It  did  n  't  want  no  stable,  it  did  n  't  ask  no  groom, 
It  did  n't  need  no  nothin'  but  a  bit  o'  standin'  room. 
Just  fill  it  up  with  paraffin  an'  it  would  go  all  day, 
Which  the  same  should  be  agin  the  law  if  I  could  'ave 
my  way. 


Well,   master  took    'is  motor-car,   an'  moted    'ere   an' 

there, 
A  frightenin'  the  'orses  an'  a  poison  in'  the  air. 
'E  wore  a  bloomin'  yachtin'  cap,  but  Lor'!  wot  did  'e 

know, 
Excep'  that  if  you  turn  a  screw  the  thing  would  stop 

or  go? 

119 


THE   GROOM'S   STORY 

An'  then  one  day  it  would  n't  go.       'E  screwed  and 

screwed  again, 
But  somethin'  jammed,  an'  there  'e  stuck  in  the  mud 

of  a  country  lane. 
It  'urt  'is  pride  most  cruel,  but  what  was  'e  to  do  ? 
So  at  last   'e  bade  me  fetch  a   'orse  to  pull  the  motor 

through. 


This  was  the  'orse  we  fetched  'im ;   an '  when  we  reached 

the  car, 
"We  braced  'im  tight  and  proper  to  the  middle  of  the 

bar, 
And  buckled  up  'is  traces  and  lashed  them  to  each  side, 
While    'e    'eld    'is    'ead   so    'aughtily,   an'  looked   most 

dignified. 


Not  bad  tempered,  mind  you,  but  kind  of  pained  and 

vexed, 
And   'e  seemed  to  say,  ' '  Well,  bli '  me !    wot  will  they 

ask  me  next? 
I  've  put  up  with  some  liberties,  but  this  caps  all  by  far, 
To  be  assistant  engine  to  a  crocky  motor-car!" 


Well,  master  'e  was  in  the  car,  a-fiddlin'  with  the  gear, 
And  the  'orse  was  meditatin',  and  I  was  standin'  near, 
When  master   'e  touched  somethin' — what  it  was  we'll 

never  know — 
But  it  sort  o'  spurred  the  boiler  up  and  made  the  en- 
gine go. 

I20 


THE  GROOM'S   STORY 

"  'Old  'ard,  old  gall"  says  master,  and  "  Gently  then !" 

says  I, 
But  an  engine  won't  'eed  coaxin'  an'  it  ain't  no  use  to 

try; 
So  first  'e  pulled  a  lever,  an'  then  'e  turned  a  screw, 
But  the  thing  kept  crawlin'  forrard  spite  of  all  that  'e 

could  do. 


And  first  it  went  quite  slowly  and  the   'orse  went  also 

slow, 
But  'e  'ad  to  buck  up  faster  when  the  wheels  began  to 

go; 
For  the  car  kept  crowdin'  on  'im  and  buttin'  'im  along, 
And  in  less  than  'alf  a  minute,  sir,  that  'orse  was  goin' 

strong. 


At  first   'e  walked  quite  dignified,  an'  then   'e    'ad  to 

trot, 
And  then  'e  tried  a  canter  when  the  pace  became  too 

'ot. 
'E  looked  'is  very  'aughtiest,  as  if  'e  didn't  mind, 
And  all  the  time  the  motor-car  was  pushin'  'im  behind. 


Now,  master  lost  'is  'ead  when  'e  found  'e  couldn  't  stop, 
And   'e  pulled  a  valve  or  somethin'  an'  somethin'  else 

went  pop, 
An '  somethin '  else  went  fizzywiz,  and  in  a  flash,  or  less, 
That  blessed  car  was  goin'  like  a  limited  express. 


THE   GROOM'S   STORY 

Master  'eld  the  steerin '  gear,  an '  kept  the  road  all  right, 
And  away  they  whizzed  and  clattered — my  aunt !  it  was 

a  sight. 
'E  seemed  the  finest  draught  'orse  as  ever  lived  by  far. 
For  all  the  country  Juggins  thought    't  was    'im  wot 

pulled  the  car. 


'E  was  strechin'  like  a  gray'ound,   'e  was  goin'  all   'e 

knew; 
But  it  bumped  an'  shoved  be'ind   'im,  for  all  that   'e 

could  do; 
It  butted  'im  an'  boosted  'im  an'  spanked  'im  on  a'ead, 
Till  'e  broke  the  ten-mile  record,  same  as  I  already  said. 


Ten  mile  in  twenty  minutes!     'E  done  it,  sir.     That's 

true. 
The  only  time  we  ever  found  what  that  'ere  'orse  could 

do. 
Some  say  it  was  n't  'ardly  fair,  and  the  papers  made  a 

fuss, 
But  'e  broke  the  ten-mile  record,  and  that 's  good  enough 

for  us. 


You  see  that  'orse 's  tail,  sir  ?    You  don 't !    No  more  do 

we, 
Which  really  ain  't  surprisin ',  for  'e  Tas  no  tail  to  see ; 
That  engine  wore  it  off  'im  before  master  made  it  stop, 
And  all  the  road  was  littered  like  a  bloomin'  barber's 

shop. 

122 


THE  GROOM'S   STORY 

And  master?    Well,  it  cured  'ira.     'E  altered  from  that 
day, 

And  come  back  to   'is   'orses  in  the  good  old-fashioned 
way. 

And  if  you  wants  to  git  the  sack,  the  quickest  way  by 
far 

Is  to  'int  as   'ow  you  think  'e  ought  to  keep  a  motor- 
car. 

A.  Conan  Doyle. 


123 


The  bell  has  rung.    With  their  riders  up 

At  the  starting  post  they  muster, 
The  racers  stripp'd  for  the  "Melbourne  Cup," 

All  gloss,  and  polish,  and  lustre; 
And  the  course  is  seen,  with  its  emerald  sheen, 

By  the  bright  spring-tide  renew' d, 
Like  a  ribbon  of  green,  stretched  out  between 

The  ranks  of  the  multitude. 
The  flag  is  lowered.    "  They're  off!"    "  They  come!" 

The  squadron  is  sweeping  on; 
A  sway  in  the  crowd — a  murmuring  hum: 

"They're  here!"   "They're  past!"   "They're  gone!" 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 


Vt 


THE    FAVOURITE 
From  a  drawing  by  E.  Craven 


THE     RACE     OF     THE  YEAR 

Gome  down  to  the  Derby,  come  down  to  the  race, 
Come  down  to  the  downs  with  a  smile  on  your  face 
In  spite  of  the  rain  and  the  absence  of  sun, 
There's  something  to  see  in  Isonomy's  son; 
You'll  find  some  good  fellows  and  lots  of  good  cheer, 
It's  always  the  case  at  the  race  of  the  year. 

A  wonderful  sight  is  this  wonderful  course 

To  all  who  profess  a  regard  for  the  horse. 

Just  look  at  the  crowd  from  the  bend  of  the  land, 

Like  bees  in  a  swarm  all  about  the  grand  stand. 

The  roar  of  the  voices  that  falls  on  the  ear 

Has  a  wonderful  sound  at  the  race  of  the  year. 

You've  plenty  of  choice  if  you  look  for  a  nag; 

See  the  blood-looking  team  come  along  with  the  drag. 

Each  horse,  in  his  place  as  he  faces  the  hill, 

Breaks  into  a  gallop  and  moves  with  a  will. 

The  broken-down  hunter  tied  up  in  the  rear 

Hears  the  sound  of  the  horn  at  the  race  of  the  year. 

But  now  to  the  paddock,  the  crowd  is  select, 
Some  come  to  be  seen  and  some  come  to  inspect 
Two  sons  of  St.  Simon,  two  sons  of  Bend  Or, 
"While  Energy 's  offspring  shows  well  to  the  fore ; 
This  Gouverneur  fills  us  with  feelings  of  fear, 
Sent  over  from  France  for  the  race  of  the  year. 

127 


THE  RACE  OF   THE  YEAR 

There's  something  uncommon  (forgive  me  the  pun) 
In  Alington's  brown,  good  Isonomy's  son; 
They've  entered  the  horse  in  the  baronet's  name, 
But  both  have  a  share  in  his  fall  or  his  fame ; 
The  favourite  was  bred  by  the  Dorsetshire  peer, 
He  looks  like  the  nag  for  the  race  of  the  year. 

* '  They  're  off ! "  at  the  fall  of  the  flag,  with  a  speed 
That  tries  the  condition  of  those  in  the  lead. 
They're  off,  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  and  the  rain 
That  sweeps  over  Surrey's  historical  plain. 
In  passing  the  furzes  it  seems  to  be  clear 
The  Deemster  is  out  of  the  race  of  the  year. 

And  after  the  Corner  the  shouting  is  loud 

When  Stirling's  two  grandsons  came  out  of  the  crowd, 

And  Common  and  Gouverneur  stealing  away 

Show  the  Birdcatcher  line  has  a  value  to-day; 

But  Common  comes  up  as  the  multitude  cheer, 

And  adds  to  his  record  the  race  of  the  year. 

We're  proud  of  the  Derby,  we're  proud  of  the  breed 
Of  horses  that  go  with  such  wonderful  speed ; 
We're  proud  of  the  men  who  are  honest  and  straight 
In  riding  and  racing  and  try  to  create 
True  sport,  in  the  sense  that  is  highest  and  dear 
To  England,  whose  pride  is  this  race  of  the  year. 

W.  Phillpotts  Williams. 


128 


HOW   WE    BEAT    THE    FAVOURITE 

Bye,    squire/'   said    Stevens,    "  they   back   him    at 
evens ; 
The  race  is  all  over,  bar  shouting,  they  say ; 
The  Clown  ought  to  beat  her ;  Dick  Nelville  is  sweeter 
Than  ever — he  swears  he  can  win  all  the  way. 

"  A  gentleman  rider — well,  I'm  an  outsider, 
But  if  he's  a  gent  who  the  mischief's  a  jock? 

You  swells  mostly  blunder,  Dick  rides  for  the  plunder, 
He  rides,  too,  like  thunder — he  sits  like  a  rock. 

11  He  calls  '  hunted  fairly'  a  horse  that  has  barely 
Been  stripp'd  for  a  trot  within  sight  of  the  hounds, 

A  horse  that  at  Warwick  beat  Birdlime  and  Yorick, 
And  gave  Abdelkader  at  Aintree  nine  pounds. 

1 '  They  say  we  have  no  test  to  warrant  a  protest ; 

Dick  rides  for  a  lord  and  stands  in  with  a  steward ; 
The  light  of  their  faces  they  show  him — his  case  is 

Prejudged  and  his  verdict  already  secured. 

"  But  none  can  outlast  her,  and  few  travel  faster, 
She  strides  in  her  wrork  clean  away  from  The  Drag; 

You  hold  her  and  sit  her,  she  couldn't  be  fitter, 
Whenever  you  hit  her  she  '11  spring  like  a  stag. 
9  129 


HOW   WE  BEAT   THE   FAVOURITE 

"  And  p'rhaps  the  green  jacket,  at  odds  though  they 
back  it, 

May  fall,  or  there's  no  knowing  what  may  turn  up. 
The  mare  is  quite  ready,  sit  still  and  ride  steady, 

Keep  cool ;  and  I  think  you  may  just  win  the  cup. ' ' 

Dark-brown    with    tan   muzzle,    just   stripped    for   the 
tussle, 

Stood  Iseult,  arching  her  neck  to  the  curb, 
A  lean  head  and  fiery,  strong  quarters  and  wiry, 

A  loin  rather  light,  but  a  shoulder  superb. 

Some  parting  injunction,  bestowed  with  great  unction, 
I  tried  to  recall,  but  forgot  like  a  dunce, 

.When  Reginald  Murray,  full  tilt  on  White  Surrey, 
Came  down  in  a  hurry  to  start  us  at  once. 

' '  Keep  back  in  the  yellow !    Come  up  on  Othello ! 

Hold   hard   on  the   chestnut!     Turn  round   on   The 
Drag! 
Keep  back  there  on  Spartan!    Back  you,  sir,  in  tartan! 

So,  steady  there,  easy,"  and  down  went  the  flag. 

We  started,  and  Kerr  made  strong  running  on  Mermaid, 
Through  furrows  that  led  to  the  first  stake-and-bound, 

The  crack,  half  extended,  look'd  bloodlike  and  splendid, 
Held  wide  on  the  right  where  the  headland  was  sound. 

I  pulled  hard  to  baffle  her  rush  with  the  snaffle, 

Before  her  two-thirds  of  the  field  got  away 
All  through  the  wet  pasture  where  floods  of  the  last 
year 
Still  loitered,  they  clotted  my  crimson  with  clay. 

130 


HOW   WE   BEAT   THE   FAVOURITE 

The   fourth   fence,   a   wattle,   floor 'd  Monk   and  Blue- 
bottle ; 

The  Drag  came  to  grief  at  the  blackthorn  and  ditch, 
The  rails  toppled  over  Redoubt  and  Red  Rover, 

The  lane  stopped  Lycurgus  and  Leicestershire  Witch. 

She  passed  like  an  arrow  Kildare  and  Cock  Sparrow, 
And  Mantrap  and  Mermaid  refused  the  stone  wall ; 

And  Giles  on  The  Greyling  came  down  at  the  paling, 
And  I  was  left  sailing  in  front  of  them  all. 

I  took  them  a  burster,  nor  eased  her  nor  nursed  her 
Until  the  Black  Bullfinch  led  into  the  plough, 

And    through    the    strong    bramble   we    bored    with    a 
scramble — 
My  cap  was  knocked  off  by  the  hazel-tree  bough. 

"Where  furrows  looked  lighter  I  drew  the  rein  tighter — 
Her  dark  chest  all  dappled  with  flakes  of  white  foam, 

Her  flanks  mud  bespattered,  a  weak  rail  she  shattered — 
We  landed  on  turf  with  our  heads  turn'd  for  home. 

Then  crash 'd  a  low  binder,  and  then  close  behind  her 
The  sward  to  the  strokes  of  the  favourite  shook; 

His  rush  roused  her  mettle,  yet  ever  so  little 

She  shorten 'd  her  stride  as  we  raced  at  the  brook. 

She  rose  when  I  hit  her.     I  saw  the  stream  glitter, 
A  wide  scarlet  nostril  flashed  close  to  my  knee, 

Between  sky  and  water  The  Clown  came  and  caught  her, 
The  space  that  he  cleared  was  a  caution  to  see. 

131. 


HOW   WE   BEAT   THE   FAVOURITE 

And  forcing  the  running,  discarding  all  cunning, 
A  length  to  the  front  went  the  rider  in  green; 

A  long  strip  of  stubble,  and  then  the  big  double, 
Two  stiff  nights  of  rails  with  a  quickset  between. 

She  raced  at  the  rasper,  I  felt  my  knees  grasp  her, 
I  found  my  hands  give  to  her  strain  on  the  bit ; 

She  rose  when  The  Clown  did — our  silks  as  we  bounded 
Brush 'd  lightly,  our  stirrups  crash 'd  loud  as  we  lit. 

A  rise  steeply  sloping,  a  fence  with  stone  coping — 
The  last — we  diverged  round  the  base  of  the  hill ; 
His  path  was  the  nearer,  his  leap  was  the  clearer, 

I  flogg'd  up  the  straight,  and  he  led  sitting  still. 

She  came  to  his  quarter,  and  on  still  I  brought  her, 
And  up  to  his  girth,  to  his  breast-plate  she  drew ; 

A  short  prayer  from  Neville  just  reach 'd  me,  "  The 
devil!" 
He  mutter  'd — lock  'd  level  the  hurdles  we  flew. 

A  hum  of  hoarse  cheering,  a  dense  crowd  careering, 
All  sights  seen  obscurely,  all  shouts  vaguely  heard ; 

"  The  green  wins!"    "  The  crimson!"     The  multitude 
swims  on. 
And  figures  are  blended  and  features  are  blurr'd. 

"  The  horse  is  her  master!"     "  The  green  forges  past 
her!" 

II  The  Clown  will  outlast  her!"    "  The  Clown  wins!" 

"  The  Clown!" 
The  white  railing  races  with  all  the  white  faces, 
The  chestnut  outpaces,  outstretches  the  brown. 

132 


HOW    WE   BEAT   THE   FAVOURITE 

On  still  past  the  gateway  she  strains  in  the  straightway, 
Still    struggles,    "  The    Clown    by    a    short    neck    at 
most, ' ' 
He  swerves,  the  green  scourges,  the   stand  rocks   and 
surges, 
And  flashes,  and  verges,  and  flits  the  white  post. 

Aye!   so  ends  the  tussle, — I  knew  the  tan  mizzle 

Was  first,  though  the  ring-men  were  yelling  "  Dead 
heat!" 
A  nose  I  could  swear  by,  but  Clarke  said,  "  The  mare  by 
A  short  head."     And  that's  how  the  favourite  was 
beat. 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 


133 


LORRAINE,  LORRAINE,  LORREE 

are  you  ready  for  your  steeple-chase,  Lorraine,  Lor- 
raine, Lorree? 
Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Baree, 
You're  booked  to  ride  your  capping  race  to-day  at  Coul- 

terlee, 
You're  booked  to  ride  Vindictive,  for  all  the  world  to 

see, 
To  keep  him  straight,  and  keep  him  first,  and  win  the 

run  for  me. 
Barum,  Barum,  etc. 

She  clasped  her  new  born  baby,  poor  Lorraine,  Lorraine, 

Lorree, 
"  I  cannot  ride  Vindictive,  as  any  man  might  see, 
And  I  will  not  ride  Vindictive,  with  this  baby  on  my 

knee; 
He's  killed  a  boy,  he's  killed  a  man,  and  why  must  he 

kill  me?" 

"  Unless  you  ride  Vindictive,  Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lor- 
ree, 

Unless  you  ride  Vindictive  to-day  at  Coulterlee, 

And  land  him  safe  across  the  brook,  and  win  the  blank 
for  me, 

It's  you  may  keep  your  baby,  for  you'll  get  no  keep 
from  me." 

134 


LORRAINE,  LORRAINE,  LORREE 

"  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,"  said  Lorraine,  Lor- 
raine, Lorree, 

"  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,  I  have  known  for  sea- 
sons three; 

But  oh !  to  ride  Vindictive  while  a  baby  cries  for  me, 

And  be  killed  across  a  fence  at  last  for  all  the  world  to 
see!" 

She  mastered  young  Vindictive — Oh!    the  gallant  lass 

was  she, 
And  kept  him  straight  and  won  the  race  as  near  as  near 

could  be; 
But  he  killed  her  at  the  brook  against  a  pollard  willow 

tree, 
Oh!    he  killed  her  at  the  brook,  the  brute,  for  all  the 

world  to  see, 
And   no   one   but   the   baby   cried   for   poor  Lorraine, 

Lorree. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


i35 


THE    OPEN    STEEPLECHASE 

Xhad  ridden  over  hurdles  up  the  country  once  or 
twice, 
By  the  side  of  Snowy  River  with  a  horse  they  called 
"  The  Ace." 
And  we  brought  him  down  to  Sydney,  and  our  rider, 

Jimmy  Rice, 
Got  a  fall  and  broke  his  shoulder,  so  they  nabbed  me 
in  a  trice — 
Me,  that  never  wore  the  colours,  for  the  Open  Steeple- 
chase. 

"  Make  the  running,"  said  the  trainer,  "  it's  your  only 
chance  whatever, 
Make  it  hot  from  start  to  finish,  for  the  old  black 
horse  can  stay, 
And  just  think  of  how  they'll  take  it,  when  they  hear 

on  Snowy  River 
That  the  country  boy  was  plucky,  and  the  country  horse 
was  clever, 
You  must  ride  for  old  Monaro  and  the  mountain  boys 
to-day." 

136 


THE   OPEN    STEEPLECHASE 

1 '  Are  you  ready, ' '  said  the  starter,  as  we  held  the  horses 

back, 
All    ablazing   with   impatience,    with   excitement    all 

aglow ; 
Before  us  like  a  ribbon  stretched  the  steeple-chasing 

track, 
And  the  sun-rays  glistened  brightly  on  the  chestnut  and 

the  black 
As  the  starter's   words   came   slowly,   "  Are — you — 

ready?    Go!" 

Well,  I  scarcely  knew  we'd  started,  I  was  stupid  like 
with  wonder 
Till  the  field  closed  up  beside  me  and  a  jump  ap- 
peared ahead. 

And  we  flew  it  like  a  hurdle,  not  a  baulk  and  not  a 
blunder, 

As  we  charged  it  all  together,  and  it  fairly  whistled 
under, 
And  then  some  were  pulled  behind  me  and  a  few  shot 
out  and  led. 

So  we  ran  for  half  the  distance,  and  I'm  making  no 
pretences 
"When  I  tell  you  I  was  feeling  very  nervous-like  and 
queer, 
For  those  jockeys  rode  like  demons;    you  would  think 

they'd  lost  their  senses 
If  you  saw  them  rush  their  horses  at  those  rasping  five 
foot  fences — 
And  in  place  of  making  running  I  was  falling  to  the 
rear. 

i37 


THE  OPEN   STEEPLECHASE 

Till  a  chap  came  racing  past  me  on  a  horse  they  called 

"  The  Quiver," 
And  said  he,  "  My  country  joker,  are  you  going  to 

give  it  best? 
Are  you  frightened  of  the  fences?  does  their  stoutness 

make  you  shiver? 
Have  they  come  to  breeding  cowards  by  the  side  of 

Snowy  River? 
Are  there  riders  on  Monaro?" — but  I  never  heard  the 

rest. 

For  I  drove  the  Ace  and  sent  him  just  as  fast  as  he 

could  pace  it, 
At  the  big  black  line  of  timber  stretching  fair  across 

the  track, 
And  he  shot  beside  the  Quiver.     "  Now,"  said  I,  "  my 

boy,  we'll  race  it. 
You  can  come  with  Snowy  River  if  you're  only  game  to 

face  it; 
Let  us  mend  the  pace  a  little  and  we  '11  see  who  cries  a 

crack." 

So  we  raced  away  together,  and  we  left  the  others  stand- 
ing, 
And  the  people  cheered  and  shouted  as  we  settled 
down  to  ride, 
And  we  clung  beside  the  Quiver.    At  his  taking  off  and 

landing 
I  could  see  his  scarlet  nostril  and  his  mighty  ribs  ex- 
panding, 
And  the  Ace  stretched  out  in  earnest  and  we  held 
him  stride  for  stride. 
138 


THE  OPEN   STEEPLECHASE 

But  the  pace  was  so  terrific  that  they  soon  ran  out  their 

tether — 
They  were  rolling  in  their  gallop,  they  were  fairly 

blown  and  beat — 
But  they  both  were  game  as  pebbles — neither  one  would 

show  the  feather. 
And  we  rushed  them  at  the   fences,  and  they  cleared 

them  both  together, 
Nearly  every  time  they  clouted  but  they  somehow  kept 

their  feet. 

Then  the  last  jump  rose  before  us,  and  they  faced  it 

game  as  ever — 
"We  were  both  at  spur  and  whipcord,  fetching  blood 

at  every  bound — 
And  above  the  people's  cheering  and  the  cries  of  "  Ace" 

and  "  Quiver," 
I  could  hear  the  trainer  shouting,  "  One  more  run  for 

Snowy  Eiver." 
Then  we  struck  the  jump  together  and  came  smashing 

to  the  ground. 

•Well,  the  Quiver  ran  to  blazes,  but  the  Ace  stood  still 
and  waited, 
Stood  and  waited  like  a  statue  while  I  scrambled  on 
his  back. 
There  was  no  one  next  or  near  me  for  the  field  was 

fairly  slated, 
So  I  cantered  home  a  winner  with  my  shoulder  dislo- 
cated, 
While  the  man  that  rode  the  Quiver  followed  limping 
down  the  track. 

139 


THE  OPEN   STEEPLECHASE 

And  he  shook  my  hand  and  told  me  that  in  all  his  days 
he  never 
Met  a  man  who  rode  more  gamely,  and  our  last  set  to 
was  prime, 
And  we  wired  them  on  Monaro  how  we  chanced  to  beat 

the  Quiver. 
And  they  sent  us  back  an  answer,  ■'  Good  old  sort  from 
Snowy  River ; 
Send  us  word  each  race  you  start  in  and  we'll  back 
you  every  time." 

A.  B.  Paterson. 


140 


THE    AMATEUR    RIDER 

Him  going  to  ride  for  us !    Him — with  the  pants  and 
the  eyeglass  and  all. 
Amateur!   don't  he  just  look  it — it's  twenty  to  one  on  a 

fall. 
Boss  must  be  gone  off  his  head  to  be  sending  our  steeple- 
chase crack 
Out  over  fences  like  these  with  an  object  like  that  on 
his  back. 

Hide!  Don't  tell  me  he  can  ride.  With  his  pants  just 
as  loose  as  balloons, 

How  can  he  sit  on  his  horse?  and  his  spurs  like  a  pair 
of  harpoons ; 

Ought  to  be  under  the  Dog  Act,  he  ought,  and  be  kept 
off  the  course. 

Fall!  why,  he'd  fall  off  a  cart,  let  alone  off  a  steeple- 
chase horse. 


Yes  sir!   the  'orse  is  all  ready — I  wish  you'd  have  rode 

him  before; 
Nothing  like  knowing  your  'orse,  sir,  and  this  chap's  a 

terror  to  bore; 
Battleaxe  always  could  pull,  and  he  rushes  his  fences 

like  fun — 
Stands  off  his  jump  twenty  feet,  and  then  springs  like 

a  shot  from  a  gun. 

141 


THE   AMATEUR   RIDER 

Oh,  he  can  jump  'em  all  right,  sir,  you  make- no  mis- 
take, 'e  's  a  toff ; 

Clouts  'em  in  earnest,  too,  sometimes,  you  mind  that  he 
don't  clout  you  off — 

Don't  seem  to  mind  how  he  hits  'em,  his  shins  is  as  hard 
as  a  nail, 

Sometimes  you'll  see  the  fence  shake  and  the  splinters 
fly  up  from  the  rail. 

All  you  can  do  is  to  hold  him  and  just  let  him  jump  as 

he  likes, 
Give  him  his  head  at  the  fences,  and  hang  on  like  death 

if  he  strikes; 
Don't  let  him  run  himself  out — you  can  lie  third  or 

fourth  in  the  race — 
Until  you  clear  the  stone  wall,  and  from  that  you  can 

put  on  the  pace. 

Fell  at  that  wall  once,  he  did,  and  it  gave  him  a  regular 
spread, 

Ever  since  that  time  he  flies  i,t — he'll  stop  if  you  pull 
at  his  head, 

Just  let  him  race — you  can. trust  him — he'll  take  first- 
class  care  he  don't  fall, 

And  I  think  that's  the  lot — but  remember,  he  must  have 
his  head  at  the  ivall. 


Well,  he's  down  safe  as  far  as  the  start,  and  he  seems 

to  sit  on  pretty  neat, 
Only   his   baggified    breeches    would   ruinate    anyone's 

seat — 

142 


THE   AMATEUR   RIDER 

They're  away — here  they  come — the  first  fence,  and  he's 

head  over  heels  for  a  crown ! 
Good  for  the  new  chum,  he 's  over,  and  two  of  the  others 

are  down! 

Now  for  the  treble,  my  hearty — By  Jove,  he  can  ride, 
after  all ; 

Whoop,  that's  your  sort — let  him  fly  them!  He  hasn't 
much  fear  of  a  fall. 

Who  in  the  world  would  have  thought  it?  And  aren't 
they  just  going  a  pace? 

Little  Recruit  in  the  lead  there  will  make  it  a  stoutly- 
run  race. 

Lord!     But  they're  racing  in  earnest — and  down  goes 

Recruit  on  his  head, 
Rolling  clean  over  his  boy — it's  a  miracle  if  he  ain't 

dead. 
Battleaxe,  Battleaxe  yet !    By  the  Lord,  he 's  got  most  of 

'em  beat — 
Ho!    did  you  see  how  he  struck,  and  the  swell  never 

moved  in  his  seat? 

Second  time  round,  and,  by  Jingo!    he's  holding  his 

lead  of  'em  well ; 
Hark  to  him  clouting  the  timber!     It  don't  seem  to 

trouble  the  swell. 
Now  for  the  wall — let  him  rush  it.    A  thirty-foot  leap, 

I  declare — 
Never  a  shift  in  his  seat,  and  he's  racing  for  home  like 

a  hare. 

i43 


THE  AMATEUR   RIDER 

"What's    that    that's    chasing    him — Rataplan — regular 

demon  to  stay! 
Sit  clown  and  ride  for  your  life  now !     Oh,  good,  that 's 

the  style — come  away! 
Rataplan's  certain  to  beat  you,  unless  you  can  give  him 

the  slip ; 
Sit  down  and  rub  in  the  whalebone  now — give  him  the 

spur  and  the  whip  ! 

Battleaxe,  Battleaxe,  yet — and  it's  Battleaxe  wins  for  a 

crown; 
Look   at   him   rushing  the   fences,   he   wants   to   bring 

t'other  chap  down. 
Rataplan  never  will  catch  him  if  only  he  keep  on  his 

pins; 
Now!    the  last   fence!    and  he's  over   it!     Battleaxe, 

Battleaxe  wins ! 


"Well,  sir,  you  rode  him  just  perfect — I  knew  from  the 

first  you  could  ride. 
Some  of  the  chaps  said  you  couldn't,  an'  I  says  just 

like  this  a '  one  side : 
Mark   me,   I   says,   that's   a  tradesman — the   saddle   is 

where  he  was  bred. 
"Weight !  you  're  all  right,  sir,  and  thank  you ;   and  them 

was  the  words  that  I  said. 

A.  B.  Paterson. 


144 


THE     FAMOUS     BALLAD     OF     THE 
JUBILEE    CUP 

Sou  may  lift  me  up  in  your  arms,  lad,  and  turn  my 
face  to  the  sun, 
For  a  last  look  back  at  the  dear  old  track  where  the 

Jubilee  cup  was  won ; 
And  draw  your  chair  to  my  side,  lad — no,  thank  ye,  I 

feel  no  pain — 
For  I'm  going  out  with  the  tide,  lad;   but  I'll  tell  you 
the  tale  again. 

I'm  seventy-nine  or  nearly,  and  my  head  it  has  long 
turned  gray, 

But  it  all  comes  back  as  clearly  as  though  it  was  yester- 
day— 

The  dust,  and  the  bookies  shouting  around  the  clerk  of 
the  scales, 

And  the  clerk  of  the  course,  and  the  nobs  in  force,  and 
'Is  'Ighness  the  Pr.  .nee  of  W.les. 

'T  was  a  nine-hole  thresh  to  wind'ard  (but  none  of  us 

cared  for  that), 
With  a  straight  run  home  to  the  service  tee,  and  a  finish 

along  the  flat, 
"  Stiff?"  ah,  well  you  may  say  it!    Spot  barred,  and  at 

five  stone  ten! 
But  at  two  and  a  bisque  I'd  ha'  run  the  risk;    for  I 

was  a  greenhorn  then. 

io  145 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

So  we  stripped  to  the  B.  Race  signal,  the  old  red  swal- 
lowtail— 

There  was  young  Ben  Bolt  and  the  Portland  Colt,  and 
Aston  Villa,  and  Yale; 

And  W.  G.,  and  Steinitz,  Leander  and  The  Saint, 

And  the  G.rm.n  Emp.r.r's  Meteor,  a-looking  as  fresh 
£U3  paint; 

John  Roberts  (scratch),  and  Safety  Match,  The  Lascar, 

and  Lorna  Doone, 
Oom  Paul    (a  bye),  and  Romany  Rye,   and  me  upon 

Wooden  Spoon; 
And  some  of  us  cut  for  partners,  and  some  of  us  strung 

for  baulk, 
And  some  of  us  tossed  for  stations — But  there,  what  use 

to  talk  ? 


Three-quarter-back  on  the  Kingsclere  crack  was  station 

enough  for  me, 
"With  a  fresh  jackyarder  blowing  and  the  Vicarage  goal 

a-lee ! 
And  I  leaned  and  patted  her  centre-bit  and  eased  the 

quid  in  her  cheek, 
With  a  "  Soh  my  lass!"  and  a  "  Woa  you  brute!"— 

for  she  could  do  all  but  speak. 

She  was  geared  a  thought  too  high  perhaps;    she  was 

trained  a  trifle  fine ; 
But  she  had  the  grand  reach  forward !    I  never  saw  such 

a  line ! 

146 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

Smooth-bored,  clean  run,  from  her  fiddle  head  with  its 

dainty  ear  half-cock, 
Hard-bit,  pur  sang,  from  her  overhang  to  the  heel  of  her 

off  hind  sock. 

Sir  Robert  he  walked  beside  me  as  I  worked  her  down  to 

the  mark; 
"  There's  money  on  this,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "  and  most 

of  'em 's  running  dark ; 
But  ease  the  sheet  if  you're  bunkered,  and  pack  the 

scrummages  tight, 
And  use  your  slide  at  the  distance,  and  we'll  drink  to 

your  health  to-night!" 

But  I  bent  and  tightened  my  stretcher.  Said  I  to  my- 
self, said  I — 

1 '  John  Jones,  this  here  is  the  Jubilee  Cup,  and  you  have 
to  do  or  die." 

And  the  words  weren't  hardly  spoken  when  the  umpire 
shouted  "  Play!" 

And  we  all  kicked  off  from  the  Gasworks  End  with  a 
"  Yoicks!"  and  a  "  Gone  Away!" 

And  at  first  I  thought  of  nothing,  as  the  clay  flew  by  in 

lumps, 
But  stuck  to  the  old  Ruy  Lopez,  and  wondered  who'd 

call  for  trumps, 
And  luffed  her  close  to  the  cushion,  and  watched  each 

one  as  it  broke, 
And  in  triple  file  up  the  Rowley  Mile  we  went  like  a 

trail  of  smoke. 

147 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

The  Lascar  made  the  running  but  he  didn't  amount  to 

much, 
For  old  Oom  Paul  was  quick  on  the  ball,  and  headed  it 

back  to  touch; 
And  the  whole  first  flight  led  off  with  the  right  as  The 

Saint  took  up  the  pace, 
And  drove  it  clean  to  the  putting  green  and  trumped  it 

there  with  an  ace. 

John    Roberts   had   given   a  miss   in  baulk,   but  Villa 

cleared  with  a  punt; 
And   keeping   her    service   hard    and   low   the    Meteor 

forged  to  the  front; 
With  Romany  Rye  to  windward  at  dormy  and  two  to 

play, 
And  Yale  close  up — but  a  Jubilee  Cup  isn't  run  for 

every  day. 

"We  laid  our  course  for  the  Warner — I  tell  you  the  pace 

was  hot ! 
And  again  off  Tattenham  Corner  a  blanket  covered  the 

lot. 
Check  side !     Check  side !    now  steer  her   wide !    and 

barely  an  inch  of  room, 
With  The  Lascar's  tail  over  our  lee  rail  and  brushing 

Leander's  boom. 

We  were  running  as  strong  as  ever — eight  knots — but  it 

couldn't  last; 
For  the  spray  and  the  bails  were  flying,  the  whole  field 

tailing  fast; 

148 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

And  the  Portland  Colt  had  shot  his  bolt,  and  Yale  was 

bumped  at  the  Doves, 
And    The   Lascar   resigned   to   Steinitz,    stalemated   in 

fifteen  moves. 

It  was  bellows  to  mend  with  Roberts — starred  three  for 

a  penalty  kick: 
But  he  chalked  his  cue  and  gave  'em  the  butt,  and  Oom 

Paul  marked  the  trick — 
"  Offside— No  Ball— and  at  fourteen  all!     Mark  Cock! 

and  two  for  his  nob!" 
"When  W.  G.  ran  clean  through  his  lee  and  beat  him 

twice  with  a  lob. 

He  yorked  him  twice  on  a  crumbling  pitch  and  wiped 

his  eye  with  a  brace, 
But  his  guy-rope  split  with  the  strain  of  it  and  he 

dropped  back  out  of  the  race ; 
And  I  drew  a  bead  on  the  Meteor's  lead,  and  challenging 

none  too  soon, 
Bent  over  and  patted  her  garboard  strake,  and  called 

upon  Wooden  Spoon. 

She  was  all  of  a  shiver  forward,  the  spoondrift  thick 

on  her  flanks, 
But  I  'd  brought  her  an  easy  gambit,  and  nursed  her  over 

the  banks; 
She  answered  her  helm — the  darling !   and  woke  up  now 

with  a  rush, 
"While  the  Meteor's  jock,  he  sat  like  a  rock — he  knew  we 

rode  for  his  brush! 

149 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

There  was  no  one  else  left  in  it.     The  Saint  was  using 

his  whip, 
And  Safety  Match,  with  a  lofting  catch,  was  pocketed 

deep  at  slip ; 
And   young   Ben   Bolt  with   his  niblick   took   miss   at 

Leander's  lunge, 
But  topped  the  net  with  the  ricochet,  and  Steinitz  threw 

up  the  sponge. 

But  none  of  the  lot  could  stop  the  rot — nay,  don't  ask 

me  to  stop ! 
The  Villa  had  called  for  lemons,  Oom  Paul  had  taken 

his  drop, 
And  both  were  kicking  the  referee.     Poor  fellow!    he 

done  his  best; 
But,   being  in  doubt,  he'd  ruled  them  out — which  he 

always  did  when  pressed. 

So  inch  by  inch,  I  tightened  the  winch,  and  chucked  the 

sand  bags  out — 
I  heard  the  nursery  cannons  pop,  I  heard  the  bookies 

shout : 
' '  The  Meteor  wins ! "  ' «  No,  Wooden  Spoon ! "  "  Check ! ' ' 

' '  Vantage ! "   "Leg  Before ! ' ' 
"Last  Lap!"    "Pass  Nap!"    At  his  saddle-flap  I  put 

up  the  helm  and  wore. 

You  may  overlap  at  the  saddle-flap,  and  yet  be  loo'd 
on  the  tape : 

And  it  all  depends  upon  changing  ends,  how  a  seven- 
year-old  will  shape; 

150 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

It  was  tack  and  tack  to  the  Lepe  and  back — a  fair  ding- 
dong  to  the  Ridge, 

And  he  led  by  his  forward  canvas  yet  as  we  shot  'neath 
Hammersmith  Bridge. 

He  led  by  his  forward  canvas — he  led  from  his  strongest 

suit — 
But  along  we  went  on  a  roaring  scent,  and  at  Fawley  I 

gained  a  foot. 
He  fisted  off  with  his  jigger,  and  gave  me  his  wash — 

too  late ! 
Deuce — Vantage — Check!       By     neck     and     neck    we 

rounded  into  the  straight. 

I  could  hear  the  "  Conquering  'Ero"  a-crashing  on 
Godfrey's  band, 

And  my  hopes  fell  sudden  to  zero,  just  there,  with  the 
race  in  hand — 

In  sight  of  the  Turf's  Blue  Ribbon,  in  sight  of  the  um- 
pire's tape, 

As  I  felt  the  tack  of  her  spinnaker  c-rack!  as  I  heard 
the  steam  escape ! 

Had  I  lost  at  that  awful  juncture  my  presence  of  mind? 

.  .  .  but  no! 
I  leaned  and  felt  for  the  puncture,  and  plugged  it  there 

with  my  toe  .  .  . 
Hand  over  hand  by  the  Members'  Stand  I  lifted  and 

eased  her  up, 
Shot — clean  and  fair — to  the  crossbar  there,  and  landed 

the  Jubilee  Cup ! 

151 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

"  The  odd  by  a  head,  and  leg  before,"  so  the  Judge  he 
gave  the  word: 

And  the  umpire  shouted  "  Over!"  but  I  neither  spoke 
nor  stirred. 

They  crowded  round:  for  there  on  the  ground  I  lay 
in  a  dead-cold  swoon, 

Pitched  neck  and  crop  on  the  turf  atop  of  my  beau- 
tiful Wooden  Spoon. 

Her  dewlap  tire  was  punctured,  her  bearings  all  red 

hot; 
She  'd  a  lolling  tongue,  and  her  bowsprit  sprung,  and  her 

running  gear  in  a  knot ; 
And  amid  the  sobs  of  her  backers,  Sir  Robert  loosened 

her  girth 
And  led  her  away  to  the  knacker's.     She  had  raced  her 

last  on  earth! 

But  I  mind  me  well  of  the  tear  that  fell  from  the  eye 

of  our  noble  Pr.nce, 
And  the  things  he  said  as  he  tucked  me  in  bed — and  I  've 

lain  there  ever  since; 
Tho'  it  all  gets  mixed  up  queerly  that  happened  before 

my  spill, — 
But   I   drew  my   thousand   yearly:    it'll   pay   for   the 

doctor's  bill. 

I'm  going  out  with  the  tide,  lad — you'll  dig  me  a  num- 

ble  grave, 
And  whiles  you  will  bring  your  bride,  lad,  and  your 

sons,  if  sons  you  have, 

152 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE  CUP 

And  there  when  the  dews  are  weeping,  and  the  echoes 

murmur  "  Peace!" 
And  the  salt,  salt  tide  comes  creeping  and  covers  the 

popping-crease ; 

In  the  hour  when  the  ducks  deposit  their  eggs  with  a 

boasted  force, 
They'll  look  and  whisper,  "  How  was  it?"  and  you'll 

take  them  over  the  course, 
And  your  voice  will  break  as  you  try  to  speak  of  the 

glorious  first  of  June, 
When  the  Jubilee  Cup,  with  John  Jones  up,  was  won 

upon  Wooden  Spoon. 

Arthur  T.  Quiller-Couch. 


i53 


They're  running — they're  running,  Go  hark! 
Let  them  run  on  and  run  till  it's  dark! 
Well  with  them  we  are,  and  well  with  them  we'll  be, 
While  there's  wind  in  our  horses  and  daylight  to  see: 
Then  shog  along  homeward,  chat  over  the  fight, 
And  hear  in  our  dreams  the  sweet  music  all  night 
Of — They're  running — they're  running, 
Go  hark! 

Charles  Eingsley. 


THE    LITTLE  RED  ROVER 

J^\he  dewdrop  is  clinging 
^^^  To  whin-bush  and  brake, 
The  skylark  is  singing 

"  Merrie  hunters,  awake." 
Home  to  the  cover 

Deserted  by  night, 
The  little  Red  Rover 

Is  bending  his  flight. 

Resounds  the  glad  hollo ; 

The  pack  scents  the  prey ; 
Man  and  horse  follow; 

Away!    Hark,  away! 
Away !  never  fearing, 

Ne  'er  slacken  your  pace : 
"What  music  so  cheering 

As  that  of  the  chase? 

The  Rover  still  speeding, 

Still  distant  from  home, 
Spurr'd  flanks  are  bleeding, 

And  cover  'd  with  foam ; 
Fleet  limbs  extended, 

Roan,  chestnut,  or  grey, 
The  burst,  ere  'tis  ended, 

Shall  try  them  to-day! 

i57 


THE   LITTLE   RED   ROVER 

"Well  known  is  yon  cover, 

And  crag  hanging  o  'er ! 
The  little  Red  Rover 

Shall  reach  it  no  more! 
The  foremost  hounds  near  him, 

His  strength  'gins  to  droop ; 
In  pieces  they  tear  him, 

Who- whoop !    Who-who-whoop ! 

R.  E.  Egerton  Warburton. 


153 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    COTTISWOLD 

X  remember  the  lowering  wintry  morn, 
And  the  mist  on  the  Cotswold  hills, 
Where  I  once  heard  the  blast  of  the  huntsman's  horn, 

Not  far  from  the  seven  rills. 
Jack  Esdale  was  there,  and  Hugh  St.  Clair, 

Bob  Chapman,  and  Andrew  Kerr, 
And  big  George  Griffiths  on  Devil-May-Care, 

And — black  Tom  Oliver. 
And  one  who  rode  on  a  dark  brown  steed, 

Clean  jointed,  sinewy,  spare, 
With  the  lean  game  head  of  the  Blacklock  breed 
And  the  resolute  eye  that  loves  the  lead, 

And  the  quarters  massive  and  square — 
A  tower  of  strength,  with  a  promise  of  speed 

(There  was  Celtic  blood  in  the  pair). 

I  remember  how  merry  a  start  we  got, 

When  the  red  fox  broke  from  the  gorse, 
In  a  country  so  deep,  with  a  scent  so  hot, 

That  the  hound  could  outpace  the  horse ; 
I  remember  how  few  in  the  front  rank  show'd, 

How  endless  appeared  the  tail, 
On  the  brown  hill  side,  where  we  cross 'd  the  road, 

And  headed  towards  the  vale. 

The  right  hand  man  to  the  left  hand  said, 

As  down  in  the  vale  we  went, 
"  Harden  your  heart  like  a  millstone,  Ned, 

And  set  your  face  as  flint; 

iS9 


A  LEGEND   OF   THE   COTTISWOLD 

Solid  and  tall  is  the  rasping  wall 

That  stretches  before  us  yonder; 
You  must  have  it  at  speed  or  not  at  all, 

'Twere  better  to  halt  than  to  ponder, 
For  the  stream  runs  wide  on  the  take-off  side, 

And  washes  the  clay  bank  under; 
Here  goes  for  a  pull,  'tis  a  madman's  ride, 

And  a  broken  neck  if  you  blunder." 


No  word  in  reply  his  comrade  spoke, 

Nor  waver 'd,  nor  once  looked  round, 
But  I  saw  him  shorten  his  horse's  stroke 

As  we  splash 'd  through  the  marshy  ground; 
I  remember  the  laugh  that  all  the  while 

On  his  quiet  features  play'd: — 
So  he  rode  to  his  death,  with  that  careless  smile, 

In  the  van  of  the  "  Light  Brigade," 
So  stricken  by  Russian  grape,  the  cheer 

Rang  out,  while  he  toppled  back, 
From  the  shattered  lungs  as  merry  and  clear 

As  it  did  when  it  roused  the  pack. 
Let  never  a  tear  his  memory  stain, 

Give  his  ashes  never  a  sigh, 
One  of  many  who  perished,  not  in  vain, 

As  a  type  of  oar  chivalry! 


I  remember  one  thrust  he  gave  to  his  hat, 
And  two  to  the  flanks  of  the  brown, 

And  still  as  a  statue  of  old  he  sat, 

And  he  shot  to  the  front,  hands  down; 
160 


A   LEGEND   OF   THE  COTTISWOLD 

I  remember  the  snort  and  the  stag-like  bound 

Of  the  steed  six  lengths  to  the  fore, 
And  the  laugh  of  the  rider  while,  landing  sound, 
He  turned  in  his  saddle  and  glanced  around; 

I  remember — but  little  more, 
Save  a  bird's-eye  gleam  of  the  dashing  stream, 

A  jarring  thud  on  the  wall, 
A  shock  and  the  blank  of  a  nightmare's  dream — 

I  was  down  with  a  stunning  fall. 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 


ii  161 


A     NEW     HUNTING     SONG,     MADE 
ON    A   FOX    CHASE 

Gome  all  you  Foxhunters  wherever  you  be, 
Repair  to  the  Leven  if  Sportsmen  you'd  see 
Such  hounds  and  such  horses  of  mettle  and  game; 
As  are  worthy  to  be  recorded  in  Fame. 

Sing  Ballinamona  oro.    Ballinamona  oro. 
Ballinamona  oro,   the  Lads  of  Old  Cleveland  for 
me. 

Dexter  and  Delver  and  Dido  for  speed, 

All  sprung  from  the  Race  of  Charles  Turner's  fam'd 

breed, 
A  sportsman  so  rare,  and  the  first  in  renown, 
As  witness  the  match  over  Feldom  he  won. 

Rover  and  Rally  and  Minor  likewise, 
Old  Spanker,  so  fierce  the  thick  Cover  he  tries. 
Matcham  and  Merrylass  Reynard's  sworn  foe; 
He  must  be  unkennel 'd,  hark!    I  hear  Tally  0. 

Now  my  Lads  spur  your  Horses  and  smoke  'em  away, 
Jolly,  Bacchus  and  Sampson  will  shew  you  some  play, 
Squire  Hall,  on-  his  Wakefield  that  pampered  Nag, 
Comes  Neck  over  heels,  and  yet  of  him  will  brag. 

162 


SONG   MADE  ON   A   FOX   CHASE 

Burdon,  so  proud  of  his  high  mettled  Steeds, 
And  the  Annals  of  fame  record  their  great  deeds, 
Yet  in  hunting  he's  bet  sore  against  his  desire. 
He  sticks  in  the  dirt  and  he's  pass'd  by  the  Squire. 

George  Baker,  on  Blacklegs  how  determined  his  looks, 
He  defies  the  whole  field  over  hedge,  ditch,  or  brooks, 
He  keeps  him  quite  tight  and  he  only  desires, 
A  three  hours  chase  I'll  be  d if  he  tires. 

See  thumping  along  goes  jolly  old  Walker, 

"Whilst  close  at  his  heels  lay  the  Gisborough  Prior, 

With  Powder  and  sweat,  Lord!    how  awfull  he  looks, 

D you  Matt  did  you  mind  how  I  leap'd  yonder 

brook. 

Watson,  so  fierce  how  he  rides  and  so  keen, 
He  thinks  he's  well  mounted  and  sure  to  be  in, 
But  if  he  keep  running  at  this  gallant  pace, 
'Tis  twenty  to  one,  he's  thrown  out  in  the  Chase. 

The  first  in  the  burst  was  Scroop  on  old  Match 'em, 
Straining  hard  to  get  in   Tom  swore  he  would  catch 

'em 
Whilst  screwing  along  see  Smith  only  mind  him, 
He's   top'd   the   barr'd   Gate   leaving  numbers   behind 

him. 

Yonder  goes  Stockdale  so  tight  and  so  trim 

How  he   strokes   down  his  mare  which  he   fancies  so 

slim, 
He  nicks  in  and  out  'till  he's  starv'd  with  the  cold, 
Go  bid  him  but  thirty  and  then  he'll  ride  bold. 

163 


SONG   MADE   ON   A   FOX   CHASE 

Preston,  so  brave  with  his  heart  full  of  glee, 
On  his  Gaylass  well  mounted  as  he'd  wish  to  be, 
He  swears  that  he'll  ride  'till  he  dies  in  the  field, 
As  a  true  honest  Sportsman  he  never  will  yield. 

Coates,  on  his  Tyrant  he  creeps  like  a  snail, 
He  puffs  and  he  blows,  and  how  he  rolls  his  Tail; 
Yet  a  Sportsman  so  bold  he  attempts  at  a  flyer, 
Old  Tyrant  leaps  short  and  he's  down  in  the  mire. 

The  Baronet  cautious  is  pass'd  by  his  Brother, 

As  like  you  would  swear  as  one  Egg's  like  another, 

When  fully  intending  to  lead  the  whole  field 

A  d Stell  held  'em  both  'till  the  Fox  he  was  kill  'd. 

The  Doctor,  you  scarcely  know  where  you  have  him, 
For  sometimes  he's  dodging  and  sometimes  he's  dash- 
ing, 
But  yet  to  the  Chase  will  he  eagerly  rush 
And  lose  a  good  Patient  for  bold  Reynard's  brush. 

Rowntree,  a  noted  old  Sportsman  as  good 
Who  brags  of  his  Greytail  that  choise  bit  of  Blood, 
How  at  Stockesly  so  clever  she  won  e'ery  Race, 
And  how  that  she's  equally  fam'd  for  the  Chace. 

Flounders,  the  younger  with  Eyelids  by  Glass, 
So  prim  on  his  Stallion  and  fond  of  his  slash, 
One  single  good  run  finished  off  the  gay  Quaker, 
And  now  he's  gone  dumb  with  intent  to  turn  speaker. 

164 


SONG   MADE  ON   A   FOX   CHASE 

Now  our  spout  being  over  let's  home  without  fail, 
And  drown  those  misfortunes  in  Punch  and  good  Ale; 
And  if  we're  thrown  out  we'll  draw  close  to  the  fire 
And  drink  a  good  health  to  the  Baronet  and  Squire. 

Boxburghe  Ballads. 


165 


"THE    CLIPPER    THAT    STANDS    IN 
THE     STALL    AT    THE    TOP" 

eo  strip  him,  lad !    Now,  sir,  I  think  you  '11  declare 
Such  a  picture  you  never  set  eyes  on  before ; 
He  was  bought  in  at  Tatt's  for  three  hundred  I  swear, 

And  he's  worth  all  the  money  to  look  at,  and  more; 
For  the  pick  of  the  basket,  the  show  of  the  shop, 
Is  the  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

In  the  records  of  racing  I  read  their  career, 

There  were  none  of  the  sort  but  could  gallop  and 
stay; 

At  Newmarket  his  sire  was  the  best  of  his  year, 

And  the  Yorkshiremen  boast  of  his  dam  to  this  day; 

But  never  a  likelier  foal  did  she  drop 

Than  this  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

A  head  like  a  snake,  and  a  skin  like  a  mouse, 

An  eye  like  a  woman,  bright,  gentle,  and  brown, 

With  loins  and  a  back  that  would  carry  a  house, 
And  quarters  to  lift  him  smack  over  a  town! 

"What's  a  leap  to  the  rest,  is  to  him  but  a  hop, 

This  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

"When  the  country  is  deepest,  I  give  you  my  word 

'Tis  a  pride  and  a  pleasure  to  put  him  along ; 
O'er  fallow  and  pasture  he  sweeps  like  a  bird, 

And  there's  nothing  too  wide,  nor  too  high,  nor  too 
strong ; 
For  the  ploughs  cannot  choke,  nor  the  fences  can  crop, 
This  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

166 


CLIPPER  THAT  STANDS  IN  THE  STALL 

Last  Monday  we  ran  for  an  hour  in  the  vale, 

Not  a  bullfinch  was  trimmed,  of  a  gap  not  a  sign ! 

All  the  ditches  were  double,  each  fence  had  a  rail, 
And  the  farmers  had  locked  every  gate  in  the  line ; 

So  I  gave  him  the  office,  and  over  them — Pop ! 

Went  the  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

I  'd  a  lead  of  them  all  when  we  came  to  the  brook, 
A  big  one — a  bumper — and  up  to  your  chin ; 

As  he  threw  it  behind  him,  I  turned  for  a  look, 
There  were  eight  of  us  had  it,  and  seven  got  in ! 

Then  he  shook  his  lean  head  when  he  heard  them  go 
plop ! 

This  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

Ere  we  got  to  the  finish,  I  counted  but  few, 
And  never  a  coat  without  dirt,  but  my  own; 

To  the  good  horse  I  rode  all  the  credit  was  due, 

When  the  others  were  tiring,  he  scarcely  was  blown; 

For  the  best  of  the  pace  is  unable  to  stop 

The  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

You  may  put  on  his  clothes;    every  sportsman,   they 
say, 
In  his  lifetime  has  one  that  outrivals  the  rest, 
So  the  pearl  of  my  casket  I've  shown  you  to-day, 
The  gentlest,  the  gamest — the  boldest,  the  best; 
And  I  never  will  part,  by  a  sale  or  a  swop, 
With  my  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top ! 
George  John  Whyte-Mellville. 


167 


BOLTS 

I've  a  head  like  a  violin-case ;  I 've  a  jaw  like  a  piece 
of  steel ; 
I've  a  mouth  like  india-rubber,  and  devil  a  bit  I  feel; 
So  I've  had  my  fun  with  a  biped  thing  that  clambered 

upon  my  back, 
And    I'm   in   at    the    death,   though   I'm    panting   for 
breath,  right  bang  in  the  midst  of  the  pack. 

With  a  cockney  sportsman  mounted  on  top, 

That  has  hired  me  out  for  the  day, 
It's  the  moment  for  me  to  be  off  for  a  spree 

In  a  new  and  original  way. 

In  my  own  most  original  way. 

Oats !    but  my  spirits  were  gay ! 
When  I  betted  my  bit  that  my  rider  should  sit 

Somewhere  else  ere  the  close  of  the  day. 

I  started  a  gentle  canter;   I  felt  him  bob  about, 

His  spurs  went  in,  and  the  roots  of  sin,  they  whipped 

my  hind  legs  out. 
He  put  his  arms  around  my  neck,  'twas  kindly  meant, 

I  swear, 
But  he  had  no  call  to  spoil  it  all  by  pulling  out  half 

my  hair. 

168 


BOLTS 

He  left  his  hat  in  a  puddle,  he  left  his  whip  on  a  gate, 
The  briars  knew  where,  but  I  don't  care,  the  bits  of  his 

tunic  wait; 
He  bade  me  stay,  I  raced  away,  to  the  sound  of  the 

huntsman's  horn, 
And  at  last  I  laid  him  gently  in  the  arms  of  a  bold 

blackthorn. 

The  whip  waits  safe  in  the  harness-room,  the  groom  in 

the  stable  yard, 
It's  not  that  I  mind  a  tanning — my  hide's  grown  far 

too  hard — 
But  that  tied  to  a  fly  I'm  safe  to  die,  and  on  chaff  and 

straw  abstain, 
For  as  sure  as  I  snort,  if  they  give  me  this  sort,  of 

course  I  shall  do  it  again. 

With  a  cockney  sportsman  mounted  on  top, 

That  has  hired  me  out  for  the  day, 
It's  the  moment  for  me  to  be  off  for  a  spree 

In  a  new  and  original  way. 

In  my  own  most  original  way. 

Oats !    but  my  spirits  were  gay ! 
When  I  betted  my  bit  that  my  rider  should  sit 

Somewhere  else  ere  the  close  of  the  day. 

Anonymous. 


169 


THERE'S    LIFE    IN    THE    OLD 
HORSE    YET 

©here's  life  in  him  yet,  see  them  slowly  advancing, 
The  shapely  old  hunter  is  leading  the  team 
Along  through  the  vale  where  the  sunlight  is  dancing, 
Along  by  the  brook  with  the  silvery  gleam. 

What  loins,   what   a  back,  and  what  quarters  behind 
him! 

How  short  in  the  cannon,  how  low  in  the  knee ; 
From  his  tapering  head  to  his  heel  you  will  find  him 

A  hunter  all  over  as  neat  as  can  be. 

There's  life  in  him  yet,  so  the  carter  is  musing, 
He  looks  at  the  old  horse  with  pride  in  his  face; 

"  He'll  last  me  awhile  with  good  food  and  good  using, 
He's  honest  and  good  at  his  work  in  the  trace." 

But  hark !  there  is  music  that  fills  you  with  feeling, 
The  horn  and  the  halloa  are  heard  by  the  mill ; 

Look,  yonder  he  goes,  see  him  stealthily  stealing, 
The  bonny  brown  fox  has  gone  over  the  hill. 

Yon  notes  of  the  pack,  like  the  mingling  of  waters, 

In  musical  cadence  come  over  the  lea; 
The  white  hound  is  leading  her  sons  and  her  daughters 

All  crash  through  the  gap  that  is  under  the  tree. 

170 


THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  HORSE  YET 

The  old  horse  has  seen  them,  he  hears  the  dull  thunder 
The  strokes  of  the  horses'  hoofs  make  as  they  go; 

One  plunge  in  the  air,  and  he  snaps  them  asunder, 
The  traces  that  bind  him  to  labour  so  low. 


Away — see  the  strength  of  his  youth  is  returning, 
The  embers  yet  latent  are  kindled  to  flame ; 

The  light  of  his  life  is  now  brilliantly  burning 
As  once  more  he  adds  to  his  record  of  fame. 

On,  on,  through  the  cattle  he  goes  with  a  rattle, 
The  ends  of  his  chains  make  a  musical  song; 

He  warms  to  his  work  like  a  charger  in  battle, 
"Well  up  in  the  van  see  him  sailing  along. 

The  pack,  how  he  watches  them  working  so  keenly, 
He  waits  at  the  check  and  flies  on  to  the  cry, 

He  jumps  the  high  gate  in  the  meadow  serenely, 
And  skims  o'er  the  vale  like  a  bird  in  the  sky. 

And  yonder  the  river  goes  gliding  and  gleaming, 
Look,  Levity  stands  on  the  opposite  bank ; 

From    her    beautiful    form    mark    the    bright    water 
streaming, 
She  shakes  all  the  silvery  drops  from  her  flank. 

Away!   time  is  precious,  the  moments  are  fleeting, 
Two  men  and  three  horses  are  seen  in  the  stream, 

And  one  of  them  only  his  task  is  completing, 

The  old  horse  is  left  with  the  hounds,  it  would  seem. 

171 


THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  HORSE  YET 

Alone  through  the  vale  where  the  good  pack  are  flying, 
The  air  is  alive  with  those  musical  sounds. 

' '  Who- whoop ! ' '   they   have   got   him,    ' '  Who- whoop ! ' ' 
they  are  crying, 
A  farmer  on  foot  takes  the  fox  from  the  hounds. 

Oh!  well  you  may  fasten  the  brush  to  his  bridle, 

The  gallant  old  horse  is  a  hero  to-day; 
Oh !  well  you  may  pet  him  and  make  him  your  idol, 

As  proudly  he  watches  the  hounds  as  they  bay. 

Look  back,  gallant  steed,  on  a  lifetime  of  glory, 
Along  the  long  vista  of  deeds  in  the  past ; 

Look  back,  and  recall  it,  the  often  told  story 
Of  one  in  the  hunt  who  was  game  to  the  last. 

Look  back  as  you  sleep,  with  the  moon  on  your  stable, 
Its  light  will  add  lustre  and  peace  to  your  dream, 

And  when  at  your  work,  ever  willing  and  able, 

The  thoughts  of  the  past  will  bring  life  to  the  team. 

W.  Phillpotts  Williams. 


172 


THE  BALLAD  OF  HADJI  AND  THE 
BOAR 

s  I  rode  over  the  dusty  waste 
My  dainty  Arab's  hoof -strokes  traced 
Glad  rhythms  in  my  mind, 
Which  seemed  to  murmur  unto  me 
How  he  and  I  were  lone  and  free 
As  wide  Sahara's  wind. 

My  heart  beat  high — the  sun  was  bright — 
And,  as  a  beacon's  startling  light 
Proclaims  a  threatening  war, 
My  burnished  lance-point  met  the  glare 
And  flashed  and  sparkled  in  the  air — 
A  pale  and  glancing  star. 

I  saw  a  hawk  pass  hovering 

Through  the  azure  heights,  on  balanced  wing; 

Its  shadow  fell  down  sheer 

Upon  my  path,  then  onwards  sped, 

Smoother  than  gliding  skaters  tread 

A  fastly  frozen  mere. 

Thus  heedless  I,  when  suddenly 
My  Hadji  broke  the  reverie 
By  stamping  on  the  ground, 
Whilst  from  a  brake  where  grasses  rank 
Embraced  the  margin  of  a  tank, 
There  came  a  rustling  sound: 
173 


BALLAD  OF   HADJI  AND  THE  BOAR 

No  long  suspense; — his  bloodshot  eyes 
Aflame  with  sullen,  fierce  surprise — 
Stepped  out  a  grisly  boar: 
His  gloomy  aspect  seemed  to  say — 
"  No  other  has  the  right  to  stray 
Along  this  marsh-bound  shore." 

Now  I  had  seen  the  life  blood  gush 
From  many  a  boar  of  nine-inch  tush, 
And  so  had  Hadji  too; 
But  never  I  ween  had  we  either  seen 
So  great  a  beast,  so  gaunt  and  lean, 
So  ugly  to  the  view. 

With  others  by  to  help  at  need, 

Or  give  success  applausive  meed, 

Tis  easy  to  be  brave. 

But  when  a  man  must  do  alone 

Each  danger  seems  more  dismal  grown ; 

Each  petty  ditch  a  grave. 

And  so — although  the  spear-point  dropped — 

As  still  as  effigy  I  stopped, 

Nor  gave  my  steed  the  spur; 

The  more  I  looked,  more  gruesome  grew 

This  king  of  all  the  swinish  crew ; 

More  prudence  made  demur. 

But,  as  I  hung  in  anguished  doubt, 
The  marsh-born  tyrant  turned  about, 

i74 


BALLAD   OF   HADJI   AND  THE   BOAR 

As  weary  of  the  play; 
He  turned  and  dashed  adown  the  glade 
(No  phantom  now  or  goblin  shade) 
The  well-known  grisly  gray: 

And  doubt  no  more  distressed  my  mind ; 

In  twenty  years  I'd  never  find 

Such  trophy  to  my  lance, 

For  turning  he  had  let  me  see 

His  tusks  gigantic — shame  'twould  be 

If  I  had  lost  the  chance. 

I  dropped  my  hand ;   when  Hadji  knew 
The  slackened  rein  away  he  flew 
Across  the  belt  of  ooze ; 
The  slim  reeds  rustled — till  he  sprang 
Out  on  the  plain  whose  surface  rang 
Beneath  his  iron  shoes. 

To  left,  to  right,  the  wanton  shied 
At  shadows,  as  in  lusty  pride 
He  rolled  his  dark  fierce  eye; 
Or  gazing  at  our  grim  pursuit 
He  'd  lay  his  ears  back  at  the  brute 
And  snort  full  savagely. 

As  minutes  came,  and  lived,  and  went, 
Ever  the  monster  backward  sent 
The  pebbles  in  my  face, 
Yet,  when  an  hour  was  spent — at  length 
He  semed  to  fail  in  speed  and  strength 
And  nearer  drew  the  chase. 
i/5 


BALLAD   OF   HADJI   AND  THE   BOAR 

But  lo!   the  impetuous  Ravi  ran 

Before  us;   not  a  means  to  span 

Its  fiercely  rushing  stream; 

The  boar  sprang  in — we  never  checked — 

And  followed  ere  the  foam  that  flecked 

His  plunge  had  ceased  to  gleam. 

Above  our  heads  the  yellow  wave 
Triumphant  for  an  instant  drave, 
Then  gaping  gave  us  day; 
It  gave  us  day,  and  snorting  loud 
Bold  Hadji  stemmed  the  whirling  crowd 
Of  surges  topped  with  spray, 

But  short  as  seemed  the  time  we'd  lost, 
Long  was  the  space  of  ground  it  cost. 
Not  to  be  covered  soon ; 
For  distant  dim  the  monster  grim 
Now  flitted  faint  against  the  rim 
Of  the  uprising  moon. 

Yes — like  a  bubble  filled  with  smoke — 

The  curd-white  moon  upswimming  broke 

The  vacancy  of  space, 

Whilst  sinking  slowly  at  my  back 

The  sun  breathed  blood-stains  on  the  rack 

Which  veiled  his  dying  face. 

On,  on,  again ;  the  snow- fed  flood 
Had  cooled  the  monster's  heated  blood, 
176 


BALLAD   OF   HADJI   AND  THE   BOAR 

And  fresh  and  strong  he  fled: 
An  aged  peasant  crossed  his  path; 
He  turned  upon  him  in  his  wrath, 
And  left  him  there  for  dead. 

The  wretch  implored  me  to  remain 

And  staunch  his  wound — but  all  in  vain — 

I  laughed  to  see  his  plight ; 

For  I  was  glad  the  boar  had  stayed 

To  wound  the  man,  and  so  delayed 

His  headlong  rapid  flight. 

And  Hadji  wearied  not  a  whit, 

For  stretching  free  he'd  take  the  bit 

And  hold  it,  or  would  fling 

A  foam-flake  from  his  tossing  head, 

To  glitter  on  his  mane's  silk  thread, 

"Whilst  ever  galloping. 

Ere  long  the  arid  landscape  changed ; 
A  painter's  eye  had  gladly  ranged 
Amidst  its  varied  hue ; — 
For  far  as  mortal  eye  could  reach, 
As  close  as  pebbles  on  the  beach 
Bright  poppy  flowers  blew. 

The  crimson  of  the  glowing  west 

In  fainter  ruddy  shadows  dressed 

The  mounting  eastern  moon ; 

The  slender-pillared  palm-tree  stems 

Were  sky-tinged  too,  as  though  from  gems 

Of  garnet  they  were  hewn. 

12  177 


BALLAD  OF   HADJI   AND  THE  BOAR 

Hadji  no  longer  fought  the  hand 
Which  forced  his  fleetness  to  command, 
Or  snorted  to  the  breeze : 
His  breaths  were  choked  with  piteous  sobs, 
And  I  could  feel  his  heart's  wild  throbs 
Between  my  close-set  knees. 

His  glossy  coat  no  longer  shone 

Red  golden  as  he  galloped  on, 

And  on !   without  a  check ; 

Dank  sweat  had  rusted  it  to  black 

Save  where  the.  reins  had  chafed  a  track, 

Of  snow  along  his  neck. 

The  deepening  twilight  scarce  revealed 
Where  flights  of  shadowy  night-birds  wheeled 
And  shrieking  greeted  us, 
But  never  should  my  fixed  soul 
Forsake  the  fast-approaching  goal, 
For  omens  timorous. 


The  jackals  woke  and  like  a  rout 

Of  hell-loosed  fiends,  their  eldritch  shout 

Was  borne  upon  the  breeze — 

Ail    Ail    Oul    Ail — a  ghoulish  scream, 

And  yet  half-human ;  like  a  dream 

Of  mortal  agonies. 


As  I  closed  in  on  that  evil  beast 
The  champed  froth  like  creamy  yeast 
178 


BALLAD   OF   HADJI   AND  THE   BOAR 

Bestreaked  his  grizzled  hide ; 
And  like  a  small  and  smould'ring  brand 
His  eye  back-glancing  ever  scanned 
Me  creeping  to  his  side. 

Ha!  Ha!     He  turned  to  charge  and  fight ; 

I  shouted  out  for  pure  delight, 

And  drove  my  spear-point  in. 

Clean  through  his  body  passed  the  steel — 

I  held  him  off — I  made  him  reel — 

Like  chafer  on  a  pin. 

An  instant  so — then  through  the  womb 
Of  night  I  galloped,  and  the  gloom 
Of  jungles  lone  and  drear ; — 
But  I  had  stricken,  stricken  home, 
For  on  my  hand  his  bloody  foam 
Had  left  a  purple  smear. 

So  circling  back,  I  peered  around, 
And,  by  the  moon,  too  soon  I  found 
The  grisly  brute  at  bay; 
His  back  was  to  a  thorny  tree, 
I  looked  at  him,  and  he  at  me; — 
There  one  of  us  would  stay. 

'Twas  still  as  death — we  charged  together, 
And  in  the  dim  and  sightless  weather 
I  struck  him,  but  not  true : 
He  seized  the  lance-shaft  in  his  jaw 
And  split  it  as  it  were  a  straw, 
Instead  of  good  bamboo. 
179 


BALLAD  OF   HADJI   AND  THE  BOAR 

Then  swift  as  thought  the  brute  accursed, 
Made  fiercely  in — at  Hadji  first — 
Who  much  disdained  to  fly: 
The  little  Arab  shuddering  stood — 
Then  fell — as  monarchs  of  the  wood 
When  cruel  axes  ply. 

Ere  I  could  rise,  his  tusk  had  cut 
All  down  my  back  a  gaping  rut ; — 
He  gashed  me  deep  and  sore : 
No  weapon  armed  me  for  the  strife, 
But  rage  can  fight  without  a  knife, 
I  sprang  upon  the  boar. 

The  thorn  stretched  out  its  sable  claws, 
And  nodded  with  a  black  applause ! 
With  fierce  sepulchral  glee 
Three  plaintains  whispered  in  a  rank, 
And  clapped  their  fingers  long  and  lank, 
A  ghostly  gallery. 

Above  him  now — then  fallen  beneath, 
I  tore  him  madly  with  my  teeth, 
Nor  loosed  my  frantic  hold ; 
One  finger  searched  the  spear-head  hole 
And  dug  there  like  a  frightened  mole 
'Neath  skin  and  fleshy  fold : 

I  clung  around  his  sinewy  crest ; 
He  leaped,  but  could  not  yet  divest 
180 


BALLAD   OF   HADJI   AND  THE   BOAR 

Himself  of  his  alarm. 

I  hung  as  close  as  keepsake  locket 

On  maiden  breast — but,  from  its  socket, 

He  wrenched  my  bridle-arm ! 

No  more  could  I,  and  with  a  curse 

I  yielded  to  a  last  reverse, 

And  dropped  upon  the  sand. 

He  glower 'd  o'er  me — then  drew  back 

To  make  more  headlong  the  attack 

Which  nothing  should  withstand. 

But,  even  then,  he  chanced  to  pass 
The  spot  where  dying  lay — alas ! — 
Brave  Hadji — desert-born; 
Not  e'en  that  bristled  front  was  proof 
Against  the  Arab's  armed  hoof — 
His  brains  festooned  the  thorn. 

Then  I  arose,  all  dripping  red, 
And  gazed  on  him  I  oft  had  fed, 
And  wept  to  see  him  low: 
No  more  he'd  gallop  in  his  pride — 
No  mortal  man  would  e'er  bestride 
Poor  Hadji  here  below. 

He  died  amidst  those  jungles  tangled; 

I  staggered  on  all  torn  and  mangled, 

Gasping  for  painful  breath; 

And  when,  beneath  that  placid  moon, 

My  spirit  left  me  in  a  swoon, 

I'd  known  the  worst  of  death. 

Ian  Hamilton. 
181 


Far  off  and  ever  farther  still,  pushed  on  and  on, 

Before  the  doom-foreboding  rumble  of  the  wheels 

That  toward  the  sunset  roll,  the  great  herds  graze  and 

roam: 
And  ever  in  their  midst  the  herder  rides,  and  iveals 
With  stinging  lash  some  surly  monarch  of  the  plain, 
Or  drives,  or  holds  the  shaggy  mob, — the  sky  overhead, 
Below,  wide  wastes  swept  by  the  silent,  ceaseless  wind, 
And  in  his  ears  the  sounding  rhythm  of  his  horse's  tread. 
Lines  written  for  this  book. — Ed. 


p     ce 

.   a 


VAQUERO 

nis  broad-brimm 'd  hat  push'd  back  with  careless 
air, 
The  proud  vaquero  sits  his  steed  as  free 
As  winds  that  toss  his  black  abundant  hair. 

No  rover  ever  swept  a  lawless  sea 
With  such  a  haught  and  heedless  air  as  he 

Who  scorns  the  path,  and  bounds  with  swift  disdain 
Away,  a  peon  born,  yet  born  to  be 

A  splendid  king ;  behold  him  ride,  and  reign. 

How  brave  he  takes  his  herds  in  branding  days, 
On  timber  'd  hills  that  belt  about  the  plain ; 

He  climbs,  he  wheels,  he  shouts  through  winding  ways 
Of  hiding  ferns  and  hanging  fir;  the  rein 

Is  loose,  the  rattling  spur  drives  swift ;   the  mane 
Blows  free ;  the  bullocks  rush  in  storms  before ; 

They  turn  with  lifted  heads,  they  rush  again, 

Then  sudden  plunge  from  out  the  wood,  and  pour 
A  cloud  upon  the  plain  with  one  terrific  roar. 

Now  sweeps  the  tawny  man  on  stormy  steed, 
His  gaudy  trappings  toss'd  about  and  blown 

About  the  limbs  as  lithe  as  any  reed ; 

The  swift  long  lasso  twirl'd  above  is  thrown 

From  flying  hand ;  the  fall,  the  fearful  groan 
Of  bullock  toil  'd  and  tumbled  in  the  dust — 

The  black  herds  onward  sweep,  and  all  disown 
The  fallen,  struggling  monarch  that  has  thrust 
His  tongue  in  rage  and  roll'd  his  red  eyes  in  disgust. 

Joaquin  Miller. 
185 


THE     MAN     FROM     SNOWY     RIVER 

^^^here  was  movement  at  the  station,  for  the  word  had 
^^  passed  around 

That  the  colt  from  old  Kegret  had  got  away, 
And  had  joined  the  wild  bush  horses — he  was  worth  a 
thousand  pound, 
So  all  the  cracks  had  gathered  to  the  fray. 
All  the  tried  and  noted  riders  from  the  stations  near 
and  far 
Had  mustered  at  the  homestead  overnight, 
For  the  bushmen  love  hard  riding  where  the  wild  bush 
horses  are, 
And  the  stock-horse  snuffs  the  battle  with  delight. 

There  was  Harrison,  who  made  his  pile  when  Pardon 
won  the  cup, 
The  old  man  with  his  hair  as  white  as  snow ; 
But   few   could  ride  beside   him   when   his   blood  was 
fairly  up — 
He  would  go  wherever  horse  and  man  could  go. 
And  Clancy  of  the  Overflow  came  down  to  lend  a  hand, 

No  better  horseman  ever  held  the  reins ; 
For  never   horse   could  throw  him   while   the   saddle- 
girths  would  stand, 
He  learnt  to  ride  while  droving  on  the  plains. 

186 


THE   MAN    FROM   SNOWY    RIVER 

And  one  was  there,  a  stripling  on  a  small  and  weedy 
beast, 
He  was  something  like  a  racehorse  undersized, 
With  a  touch  of  Timor  pony — three  parts  thoroughbred 
at  least — 
And  such  as  are  by  mountain  horsemen  prized. 
He  was  hard  and  tough  and  wiry — just  the  sort  that 
won't  say  die — 
There  was  courage  in  his  quick  impatient  tread; 
And  he  bore  the  badge  of  gameness  in  his  bright  and 
fiery  eye, 
And  the  proud  and  lofty  carriage  of  his  head. 

But  still  so  slight  and  weedy,  one  would  doubt  his  power 
to  stay, 
And  the  old  man  said,  "  That  horse  will  never  do 
For  a  long  and  tiring  gallop — lad,  you'd  better  stop 
away, 
Those  hills  are  far  too  rough  for  such  as  you." 
So  he  waited  sad  and  wistful — only  Clancy  stood  his 
friend — 
' '  I  think  we  ought  to  let  him  come, ' '  he  said ; 
"  I  warrant  he'll  be  with  us  when  he's  wanted  at  the 
end, 
For  both  his  horse  and  he  are  mountain  bred. ' ' 

' '  He  hails  from  Snowy  River,  up  by  Kosciusko 's  side, 

"Where  the  hills  are  twice  as  steep  and  twice  as  rough, 
Where   a  horse's  hoofs  strike  firelight  from  the   flint 
stones  every  stride, 
The  man  that  holds  his  own  is  good  enough. 

187 


THE   MAN   FROM   SNOWY   RIVER 

And  the  Snowy  River  riders  on  the  mountains  make 
their  home, 
Where  the  river  runs  those  giant  hills  between ; 
I  have  seen  full  many  horsemen  since  I  first  commenced 
to  roam, 
But  nowhere  yet  such  horsemen  have  I  seen." 

So  he  went — they  found  the  horses  by  the  big  mimosa 
clump — 
They  raced  aAvay  towards  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  the  old  man  gave  his  orders,  "  Boys,  go  at  them 
from  the  jump, 
No  use  to  try  for  fancy  riding  now. 
And  Clancy,  you  must  wheel  them,  try  and  wheel  them 
to  the  right. 
Ride  boldly,  lad,  and  never  fear  the  spills, 
For  never  yet  was  rider  that  could  keep  the  mob  in 
sight, 
If  once  they  gain  the  shelter  of  those  hills. ' ' 

So  Clancy  rode  to  wheel  them — he  was  racing  on  the 
wing 
Where  the  best  and  boldest  riders  take  their  place, 
And  he  raced  his  stock  horse  past  them,  and  he  made 
the  ranges  ring 
With  the  stockwhip,  as  he  met  them  face  to  face. 
Then  they  halted  for  a  moment,  while  he  swung  the 
dreaded  lash, 
But  they  saw  their  well-loved  mountain  full  in  view, 
And  they  charged  beneath  the  stockwhip  with  a  sharp 
and  sudden  dash, 
And  off  into  the  mountain  scrub  they  flew. 


THE   MAN   FROM   SNOWY   RIVER 

Then  fast  the  horsemen  followed,  where  the  gorges  deep 
and  black 
Kesounded  to  the  thunder  of  their  tread, 
And  the  stockwhips  woke  the  echoes,  and  they  fiercely 
answered  back 
From  cliffs  and  crags  that  beetled  overhead. 
And  upward,  ever  upward,  the  wild  horses  held  their 
way, 
Where  mountain  ash  and  kurrajong  grew  wide ; 
And  the  old  man  muttered  fiercely,  "  We  may  bid  the 
mob  good  day, 
No  man  can  hold  them  down  the  other  side." 

When    they    reached    the    mountain's    summit,    even 
Clancy  took  a  pull, 
It  well  might  make  the  boldest  hold  their  breath, 
The  wild  hop  scrub  grew  thickly,  and  the  hidden  ground 
was  full 
Of  wombat  holes,  and  any  slip  was  death. 
But  the  man  from  Snowy  River  let  the  pony  have  his 
head, 
And  he  swung  his  stockwhip  round  and  gave  a  cheer, 
And  he  raced  him  down  the  mountain  like  a  torrent 
down  its  bed, 
While  the  others  stood  and  watched  in  very  fear. 

He  sent  the  flint  stones  flying,  but  the  pony  kept  his 
feet, 
He  cleared  the  fallen  timber  in  his  stride, 
And  the  man  from  Snowy  River  never  shifted  in  his 
seat — 
It  was  grand  to  see  that  mountain  horseman  ride. 


THE   MAN   FROM   SNOWY   RIVER 

Through  the  stringy  barks  and  saplings,  on  the  rough 
and  broken  ground, 
Down  the  hillside  at  a  racing  pace  he  went ; 
And  he  never  drew  the  bridle  till  he  landed  safe  and 
sound, 
At  the  bottom  of  that  terrible  descent. 

He  was  right  among  the  horses  as  they  climbed  the 
further  hill, 
And  the  watchers  on  the  mountain  standing  mute, 
Saw  him  ply  the  stockwhip  fiercely,  he  was  right  among 
them  still, 
As  he  raced  across  the  clearing  in  pursuit. 
Then  they  lost  him  for  a  moment,  where  two  mountain 
gullies  met 
In  the  ranges,  but  a  final  glimpse  reveals 
On  a  dim  and  distant  hillside  the  wild  horses  racing  yet, 
With  the  man  from  Snowy  River  at  their  heels. 

And  he  ran  them  single-handed  till  their  sides  were 
white  with  foam. 
He  followed  like  a  bloodhound  on  their  track, 
Till  they  halted  cowed  and  beaten,  then  he  turned  their 
heads  for  home, 
And  alone  and  unassisted  brought  them  back. 
But  his  hardy  mountain  pony  he  could  scarcely  raise  a 
trot, 
He  was  blood  from  hip  to  shoulder  from  the  spur ; 
But  his  pluck  was  still  undaunted,  and  his  courage  fiery 
hot, 
For  never  yet  was  mountain  horse  a  cur. 

190 


THE   MAN    FROM    SNOWY   RIVER 

And   down   by   Kosciusko,   where  the  pine-elad   ridges 
raise 
Their  torn  and  rugged  battlements  on  high, 
"Where  the  air  is  clear  as  crystal,  and  the  white  stars 
fairly  blaze 
At  midnight  in  the  cold  and  frosty  sky, 
And  where  around  the  Overflow  the  reedbeds  sweep  and 
sway 
To  the  breezes,  and  the  rolling  plains  are  wide, 
The  man  from  Snowy  River  is  a  household  word  to-day, 
And  the  stockmen  tell  the  story  of  his  ride. 

A.  B.  Paterson. 


191 


IN    THE    DROVING    DAYS 

Only  a  pound,"  said  the  auctioneer, 
' '  Only  a  pound ;  and  I  'm  standing  here 
Selling  this  animal,  gain  or  loss. 
Only  a  pound  for  the  drover 's  horse ; 
One  of  the  sort  that  was  ne  'er  afraid, 
One  of  the  boys  of  the  Old  Brigade ; 
Thoroughly  honest  and  game,  I'll  swear, 
Only  a  little  the  worse  for  wear ; 
Plenty  as  bad  to  be  seen  in  town, 
Give  me  a  bid  and  I  '11  knock  him  down ; 
Sold  as  he  stands,  and  without  recourse, 
Give  me  a  bid  for  the  drover 's  horse. ' ' 

Loitering  there  in  an  aimless  way 
Somehow  I  noticed  the  poor  old  grey, 
Weary  and  battered  and  screwed,  of  course, 
Yet  when  I  noticed  the  old  grey  horse, 
The  rough  bush  saddle,  and  single  rein 
Of  the  bridle  laid  on  his  tangled  mane, 
Straightway  the  crowd  and  the  auctioneer 
Seemed  on  a  sudden  to  disappear, 
Melted  away  in  a  kind  of  haze, 
For  my  heart  went  back  to  the  droving  days. 
192 


IN   THE  DROVING   DAYS 

Back  to  the  road,  and  I  crossed  again 

Over  the  miles  of  the  saltbush  plain — 

The  shining  plain  that  is  said  to  be 

The  dried-up  bed  of  an  inland  sea, 

"Where  the  air  so  dry  and  so  clear  and  bright 

Refracts  the  sun  with  a  wondrous  light, 

And  out  in  the  dim  horizon  makes 

The  deep  blue  gleam  of  the  phantom  lakes. 

At  dawn  of  day  we  would  feel  the  breeze 
That  stirred  the  boughs  of  the  sleeping  trees, 
And  brought  a  breath  of  the  fragrance  rare 
That  comes  and  goes  in  that  scented  air; 
For  the  trees  and  grass  and  the  shrubs  contain 
A  dry  sweet  scent  on  the  saltbush  plain. 
For  those  that  love  it  and  understand, 
The  saltbush  plain  is  a  wonderland. 
A  wondrous  country,  where  Nature's  ways 
"Were  revealed  to  me  in  the  droving  days. 

"We  saw  the  fleet  wild  horses  pass, 
And  the  kangaroos  through  the  Mitchell  grass, 
The  emu  ran  with  her  frightened  brood 
All  unmolested  and  unpursued. 
But  there  rose  a  shout  and  a  wild  hubbub 
"When  the  dingo  raced  for  his  native  scrub, 
And  he  paid  right  dear  for  his  stolen  meals 
With  the  drovers'  dogs  at  his  wretched  heels. 
For  we  ran  him  down  at  a  rattling  pace, 
"While  the  packhorse  joined  in  the  stirring  chase. 
And  a  wild  halloo  at  the  kill  we  'd  raise — 
"We  were  light  of  heart  in  the  droving  days. 
13  193 


IN   THE  DROVING   DAYS 

'Twas  a  drover 's  horse,  and  my  hand  again 
Made  a  move  to  close  on  a  fancied  rein. 
For  I  felt  the  swing  and  the  easy  stride 
Of  the  grand  old  horse  that  I  used  to  ride. 
In  drought  or  plenty,  in  good  or  ill, 
That  same  old  steed  was  my  comrade  still; 
The  old  grey  horse  with  his  honest  ways 
Was  mate  to  me  in  the  droving  days. 

When  we  kept  our  watch  in  the  cold  and  damp, 
If  the  cattle  broke  from  the  sleeping  camp, 
Over  the  flats  and  across  the  plain, 
With  my  head  bent  down  on  his  waving  mane, 
Through  the  boughs  above  and  the  stumps  below 
On  the  darkest  night  I  could  let  him  go 
At  a  racing  speed;   he  would  choose  his  course, 
And  my  life  was  safe  with  the  old  grey  horse. 
But  man  and  horse  had  a  favourite  job, 
When  an  outlaw  broke  from  a  station  mob, 
With  a  right  good  will  was  the  stockwhip  plied, 
As  the  old  horse  raced  at  the  straggler's  side, 
And  the  greenhide  whip  such  a  weal  would  raise, 
We  could  use  the  whip  in  the  droving  days. 

"  Only  a  pound"  and  was  this  the  end — 
Only  a  pound  for  the  drover's  friend. 
The  drover's  friend  that  had  seen  his  day, 
And  now  was  worthless,  and  cast  away 
With  a  broken  knee  and  a  broken  heart 
To  be  flogged  and  starved  in  a  hawker's  cart. 
Well,  I  made  a  bid  for  a  sense  of  shame 
And  the  memories  dear  of  the  good  old  game. 
194 


IN   THE  DROVING  DAYS 

1  *  Thank  you  ?    Guinea !   and  cheap  at  that ! 
Against  you  there  in  the  curly  hat ! 
Only  a  guinea,  and  one  more  chance, 
Down  he  goes  if  there 's  no  advance ; 
Third,  and  the  last  time,  one!  two!  three!" 
And  the  old  grey  horse  was  knocked  down  to  me. 
And  now  he's  wandering,  fat  and  sleek, 
On  the  lucerne  flats  by  the  Homestead  Creek ; 
I  dare  not  ride  him  for  fear  he'd  fall, 
But  he  does  a  journey  to  beat  them  all, 
For  though  he  scarcely  a  trot  can  raise, 
He  can  take  me  back  to  the  droving  days. 

A.  B.  Paterson. 


i95 


THE    SICK    STOCK    RIDER 

nold  hard,  Ned!    Lift  me  down  once  more,  and  lay 
me  in  the  shade. 
Old  man,  you've  had  your  work  cut  out  to  guide 
Both  horses,   and   to   hold   me   in   the   saddle   when  I 
swayed, 
All  through  the  hot,  slow,  sleepy,  silent  ride. 
The  dawn  at  "  Moorabinda"  was  a  mist  rack  dull  and 
dense, 
The  sunrise  was  a  sullen,  sluggish  lamp ; 
I  was  dozing  in  the  gateway  at  Arbuthnot's  bound 'ry 
fence, 
I  was  dreaming  on  the  Limestone  cattle  camp. 
"We    crossed   the    creek    at    Carricksford,    and    sharply 
through  the  haze, 

And  suddenly  the  sun  shot  flaming  forth ; 
To  southward  lay  "Katawa,"  with  the  sankpeaks  all 
ablaze, 
And  the  flush 'd  fields  of  Glen  Lomond  lay  to  north. 
Now  westward  winds  the  bridle  path  that  leads  to  Lin- 
disfarm, 
And  yonder  looms  the  double-headed  Bluff; 
From  the  far  side  of  the  first  hill,  when  the  skies  are 
clear  and  calm, 
You  can  see  Sylvester 's  woolshed  fair  enough. 

196 


THE   SICK   STOCK   RIDER 

Five  miles  we  used  to  call  it  from  our  homestead  to  the 
place 
Where  the  big  tree  spans  the  roadway  like  an  arch ; 
'Twas  here  Ave  ran  the  dingo  down  that  gave  us  such 
a  chase 
Eight  years  ago — or  was  it  nine? — last  March. 

'Twas  merry  in  the  glowing  morn,  among  the  gleaming 
grass, 
To  wander  as  we've  wandered  many  a  mile, 
And  blow  the  cool  tobacco  cloud,  and  watch  the  white 
wreaths  pass, 
Sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle  all  the  while. 
'Twas  merry   'mid  the  blackwoods  when  we  spied  the 
station  roofs, 
To  wheel  the  wild  scrub  cattle  at  the  yard, 
With  a  running  fire  of  stockwhips  and  a  fiery  run  of  hoofs ; 
Oh !  the  hardest  day  was  never  then  too  hard ! 

Aye!    we  had  a  glorious  gallop  after  "  Starlight"  and 
his  gang, 
When  they  bolted  from  Sylvester's  on  the  flat; 
How  the  sun-dried  reed-beds  crackled,  how  the  flint- 
strewn  ranges  rang 
To  the  strokes  of  ' '  Mountaineer ' '  and  ' '  Acrobat. ' ' 
Hard  behind  them  in  the  timber,  harder  still  across  the 
heath, 
Close    beside    them    through    the    tea-tree    scrub    we 
dash'd; 
And  the  golden-tinted  fern   leaves,   how   they  rustled 
underneath ! 
And  the  honeysuckle  osiers,  how  they  crash 'd! 

197 


THE  SICK  STOCK   RIDER 

We  led  the  hunt  throughout,  Ned,  on  the  chestnut  and 
the  grey, 
And  the  troopers  were  three  hundred  yards  behind, 
While  we  emptied  our  six-shooters  on  the  bush-rangers 
at  bay, 
In  the  creek  with  stunted  box-tree  for  a  blind ! 

There  you  grappled  with  the  leader,  man  to  man  and 
horse  to  horse, 
And  you  roll  'd  together  when  the  chestnut  rear  'd ; 
He  blazed  away  and  missed  you  in  that  shallow  water- 
course— 
A  narrow  shave — his  powder  singed  your  beard ! 

In  these  hours  when  life  is  ebbing,  how  those  days  when 
life  was  young 
Come  back  to  us ;  how  clearly  I  recall 
Even  the  yarns  Jack  Hall  invented,  and  the  songs  Jem 
Roper  sung! 
And  where  are  now  Jem  Roper  and  Jack  Hall? 

Aye !  nearly  all  our  comrades  of  the  old  colonial  school, 
Our  ancient  boon  companions,  Ned,  are  gone ; 

Hard  livers  for  the  most  part,  somewhat  reckless  as  a 
rule, 
It  seems  that  you  and  I  are  left  alone. 

There  was  Hughes,  who  got  in  trouble  through  that 
business  with  the  cards, 
It  matters  little  what  become  of  him ; 
But  a  steer  ripp'd  up  MacPherson  in  the  Cooraminta 
yards, 
And  Sullivan  was  drown  'd  at  Sink-or-swim ; 

198 


THE   SICK   STOCK   RIDER 

And  Mostyn — poor  Frank  Mostyn — died  at  last  a  fear- 
ful wreck, 
In  ' '  the  horrors, ' '  at  the  Upper  Wandinong, 
And  Carisbrooke,  the  rider,  at  the  Horsefall  broke  his 
neck, 
Faith !   the  wonder  was  he  saved  his  neck  so  long ! 

Ah !  those  days  and  nights  we  squandered  at  the  Logans ' 
in  the  glen — 
The  Logans,  man  and  wife,  have  long  been  dead. 
Elsie's  tallest  girl  seems  taller  than  your  little  Elsie 
then ; 
And  Ethel  is  a  woman  grown  and  wed. 

I've  had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I've  done  my  share 
of  toil, 

And  life  is  short — the  longest  life  a  span ; 
I  care  not  now  to  tarry  for  the  corn  or  for  the  oil, 

Or  for  the  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man. 
For  good  undone  and  gifts  misspent  and  resolutions 
vain, 

'Tis  somewhat  late  to  trouble.    This  I  know — 
I  should  live  the  same  life  over,  if  I  had  to  live  again ; 

And  the  chances  are  I  go  where  most  men  go. 

The  deep  blue  skies  wax  dusky,  and  the  tall  green  trees 
grow  dim, 
The  sward  beneath  me  seems  to  heave  and  fall ; 
And  sickly,  smoky  shadows  through  the  sleepy  sunlight 
swim, 
And  on  the  very  sun 's  face  weave  their  pall. 

199 


THE   SICK   STOCK   RIDER 

Let  me  slumber  in  the  hollow  where  the  wattle  blossoms 
wave, 
With  never  stone  or  rail  to  fence  my  bed ; 
Should  the  sturdy  station  children  pull  the  bush  flowers 
on  my  grave, 
I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping  overhead. 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 


200 


Vttxter  Family  Library  of  Veterinary  Medicine 

C&iwwangs  School  of  Veterinary  Medicine  af 

Tufts  University 

200  Westboro  Road 

North  Grafton.  MA  01536 


